Bertha of Green Gables
by ruby gillis
Summary: Bertha Wright is the daughter of Diana Blythe and the granddaughter of the irrepressible Anne Shirley. Join her as she makes a lifechanging discovery and friendship during the tumultuous years of WWII.
1. In Hester Gray's Garden

"There are only two times in a woman's like when it is _appropriate_ for her to have her name in the paper," said Aunt Cordy, once upon a time – and _oh_! The way she made that word – appropriate – sound! As if it were the most important thing. As if wars had been fought over appropriateness, instead of love or hate or greed or power or anything else. Aunt Cordy was very concerned with what was appropriate. And according to Aunt Cordy, it was appropriate for a woman to have her name in the paper at her birth, and death. And that was _all_.

Bertha Wright supposed her aunt was right – or Wright. That was a pun they all had in their clan, that there was one way to do things … the Wright way. And Aunt Cordy was the expert on the Wright – and right – way to do things. And if Aunt Cordy was right about this, Bertha also supposed she would never get her name in the paper. Mother and Dad hadn't registered an announcement when she and Teddy were born – and looking down the long, straight road of life with the wisdom of fourteen, Bertha didn't think it was likely that she would ever get married.

Not because she was ugly. Bertha did not have 'too-high' an opinion of herself, but she knew that if she was not beautiful, she was fairly pleasant on the eyes. Her hair was long and as red as the road outside her door. Her eyes were gulf-grey. Her freckles might fade with time. And if plain Ella Pye could find someone to marry her, Bertha supposed she could do the same.

And it must be nice to be married. Mother and Dad seemed to enjoy it, as did Aunt Polly and Uncle Fred, and Grandmother and Grandfather Wright. But Bertha had never met any boy yet she liked enough to marry. She was good chums with all of her male classmates. Chums only, though. She couldn't imagine that she would one day let one of them take her as a bride. And it seemed inconceivable that she would ever leave Avonlea for long enough to meet someone she liked better.

Who needed to marry, after all? Bertha supposed that she didn't. Green Gables would be hers, one day, just as Lone Willow Farm would be cousin Georgie's, since he was the first grand-son. And of course she and Teddy could live at Green Gables and be happy their whole lives through. Teddy would write music like Dad, but _real_ music, not radio jingles. He would write operas and concert pieces and Bertha would sing them. And their whole lives would be filled with music.

Their lives were filled with music now – every night they gathered around the old piano and Mother played, and Father scraped his bow across his violin strings, and Teddy played his harmonica or tin whistle and Bertha sang. It was an old family tradition. They had done this for as long as Bertha could remember, but recently Mother and Dad had exchanged glances and said perhaps Bertha should begin going to Master Giacomo, the music teacher.

Master Giacomo was the only 'furriner,' as Aunt Cordy said, in the Glen, a brash, exuberant Italian with the most gracious manners and dashing ways. It was rumored that he had singlehandedly put one famous diva on the London stage a quarter of a century ago. That was not true. The truth was, he had put _two_ famous divas on the London stage – and one on the stage in Paris. And so when Mother and Dad decreed that Bertha could go and study with him, Bertha deduced that she must be able to sing.

And Master Giacomo seemed to agree. Bertha knew he did because he railed at her during their practices. If she hit a false note he threatened to drown her in the gulf. If she could not quite hit the E above high C, he raged at her and told her not to come back. But if she sang perfectly Dorabella's _Smanie implacabili, _he petted her and was meek as a kitten. Bertha knew she must have talent. Master Giacomo would not threaten to drown her if she didn't.

"_Brava, brava_!" he told her at the end of today's lesson. "_Rossa_, you sing like the angel! You make even my heart break and it break ten times before! But the last note – not so good, eh? Not so clear, so _pura_, as it should be. You will be _perfetto_ next time, or I will drown you in the gulf!"

"It was perfect _this_ time," said Bertha stubbornly. Something of the famous Shirley temper flared in her eyes.

"Listen to her! She is the singing teacher? She put two _diva_ on the stage? No she has not! Listen to me, _Rossa_, _mia testa rossa_, you will be _perfetto_ when we meet again or else –" Master Giacomo shook his fist.

Bertha wended her way home by the shore road. It was out of her way but she wanted to stop for a while in Hester Gray's old garden. Avonlea had grown since the time we saw that dear place last, becoming a veritable town in its own right. But Hester Gray's garden was still untouched. In the green-and-gold of early spring, it was especially dear. Bertha had been watching one feeble white rose-bud – the first on the bush – for two days now, and she hoped today it would be a blossom, pale and fragrant. If it had opened, she would tell Mother about it. Mother loved Hester Gray's garden as much as Bertha did, but they had vowed to never take any of the flowers from it. Away from the garden they lost none of their beauty but most of their charm.

They broke their own rule to take the last of the late, golden October roses to Hester Gray's own little grave. Bertha knew Hester Gray's story as well as she knew her own. Poor, happy little Hester Gray! How she would have loved to know her garden was still as lovingly tended as when she had been alive.

Sometimes Bertha felt so close to Hester Gray when she was in her garden that she felt she could see her, a light, slight girl in a pale dress with tumbling dark curls and big, brown eyes. She felt as though Hester must look like Uncle Fred's Dorothy. Dorothy was the most beautiful thing Bertha had ever seen and surely Hester Gray must have been beautiful.

There were secrets in this garden – mingled with the air so that they carried on the wind. Bertha knew Grandmother and Grandfather Blythe had 'plighted their troth' in this dear garden. How many others had done the same? How many others had walked here, on these very pathways, in the cool, quiet gloom? How many heroes had plucked the ancestors of this white rose to place in their lovers' hair? Surely it was not sacrilege to pluck one of the roses for that purpose? Bertha felt as though she could see them all, now – dozens of ghostly couples pledging their love in the secret, shadowy corners.

The persistent ivy was beginning to encroach upon the rose-bed, and Bertha thought it would not do. She loved the happy, cheerful ivy in its place. But she could not let it grow over her roses. She and her mother liked Hester Gray's garden with a hint of wildness about it – it would never do to let it get too pruned – but surely she could just cut this ivy back a bit? Bertha settled to her knees and sang Dorabella's aria as she worked.

She had torn up the ivy and a few little weeds, and smoothed the dirt more firmly around the base of the little rose bush when her hand brushed against something cold and firm in the ground. She looked more closely – there was a little glinting thing showing through the soil. She brushed at it – and used a twig to move the dirt away – and stared down at the treasure she held in her hand.

It was a ring – an emerald ring. Mother had emerald ear-rings but they were not so fine as this. This was an emerald as pure as spring's own heart, set in gold. The stone was so big that when Bertha slipped the ring on her finger it reached to her first knuckle. Someone must be missing this lovely thing! Who could have lost it? For a moment Bertha's heart pounded with delight. Suppose this _very ring_ had belonged to Hester Gray! She turned it over looking for an inscription and found one: _VIRGINIA HELENA MURRAY_, in elaborate script, almost worn away with dirt and time. And a date: _1863._

As Bertha knelt there, the lovely emerald ring in her hand, with the last rays of the sun glinting on it, she had no idea of the path of fate that had been opened to her that day. She was only very sad that the ring did not belong to Hester Gray. She thought that if it were Hester Gray's ring, this would be more _real_ to her somehow. It would be so romantic! She did not suspect that her future burst into blossom that day, as sweet and gloriously as the one little white rose on Hester Gray's rose-bush.


	2. The Letter

"Dear Miss Wright," the letter began.

"I thought I would write to you and tell you something about the great thing you have done for our family. _You _can't know what you have done for us – what you have done for one old woman – so I _must_ tell you. For you have done a miraculous thing. I once thought it was only the fountain of youth that could make someone feel so young again.

"You won't mind, Miss Wright, if I start at the beginning? I want to tell you something about my grandmother. It's her ring you have found. She is Virginia Helena Murray, or once was. She has been Virginia Helena Gray for many years now, far longer than she ever was anything else. Grand is a tiny, silvery-haired old bird of a lady. She stoops when she walks and her sight is almost gone. Which is why I am writing to you in her stead, you see.

"Grand is almost ninety years old, and she _is_ grand, which is why we call her that. You wrote to me in your letter the story of Hester Gray and her garden – but you needn't have. Grand told me the story of Hester Gray when I was nothing more than a boy. My grandmother and Hester Gray – Hester Gray, _nee _Hester Murray – were sisters.

"Grand visited her sister only once after she married Jordan Gray. As luck would have it, Jordan Gray had a cousin named Robert Gray who was visiting at the same time. Of course he and Grand fell in love right away – how could they not? It wouldn't be half as good a story if they hadn't fallen instantly in love. By the first day, they loved each other – by the end of the week they were engaged – and the day before Grand was to go back to Boston Robert Gray presented her with a lovely emerald ring.

"Yes – the one you found! Grand remembers she had never seen anything so beautiful. She wore it so proudly for twenty-four hours – and then promptly lost it. She never knew where until now, but she remembers that the day she lost it she planted a white rose-bush in Aunt Hester's garden. Remembers it well! Grand has a mind like a steel trap.

"You might suppose that she and Robert Gray never saw one another again, or some such tragedy, but they did, and they were married, and they moved back to Boston together, where our family still lives. Grand and Robert Gray found every happiness in life. But they never found the ring. Robert Gray – my esteemed Grandfather Grey – bought Grand a lovely diamond to make up for it but she never forgot her lost diamond and Grandfather Grey teased her from time to time over it.

"Grand told us about her 'Lost Emerald,' from the time we were old enough to hear and it has grown to have a hint of family lore about it. We never expected it would ever turn up. We thought perhaps Grand had even exaggerated her story for its own sake. But of course she wasn't, and it is every bit as lovely as she said, especially now that it is where it belongs, on her hand – and now that Grandfather Grey has died and left her behind.

"You see, Miss Wright – one of the last things he said to her before he went was, 'Ginny,' – that's what he called her – 'I've given to you my heart, darling.' Then old Grandfather shook with laughter, 'And I'm glad you haven't treated it as you did my first ring!'

"He didn't mean any harm, you see – it was a great joke between them. But Grand always did feel badly and now that she has it back she feels young again – like the girl she was when he first put it on her finger.

"She says now, as I write this, to tell you that you are a dear, darling girl for giving her back her lost youth. I tend to agree. She is happier of heart and more sparkling of eye that I can remember since Grandfather's passing. Miss Wright – whomever you are, thank you. And thank you for loving Aunt Hester's garden. I have never seen it but I hold a soft spot for Hester and her husband Jordan, probably because they called me after him. I am, you see,

Your true friend,

**JORDAN GRAY**

"P.S. Grandmother says again – "You dear, _darling_ girl!'"


	3. Orchard Slope

Bertha stood still while Aunt Cordy pinned the hem of dress. From her height she could look down at Aunt Cordy while she knelt and see her ridiculous snood. _No one_ wore snoods anymore, except for women who went out to work. Bertha supposed Aunt Cordy had enough work on her hands at Orchard Slope as any working woman. But still! A hair-net was too frumpy and dowdy to be believed.

But then Aunt Cordy stood back to admire her handiwork and she nodded her head.

"You'll do," she said, placing a work-weathered hand against Bertha's cheek. And Bertha immediately felt bad for thinking anything uncharitable about Aunt Cordy. She did nothing except work for her and Teddy, and Uncle Fred's children. She could wear a snood or anything else she wanted, dear Aunt Cordy!

"Of course that dress does look a bit shabby." Aunt Cordy pursed her lips and Bertha felt her own face fall.

"I do wish I could have a new dress, Aunt Cordelia. But of course it's hard to get anything new now that we are rationing everything so heavily."

"If only you would stop growing, child," said Aunt Cordy peevishly. "I don't know why you are so tall. You don't get it from _our _side."

Bertha had no doubt. It was not the Wright way to be tall. Even Father was _just_ as tall as Mother. Bertha had outgrown both Dorothy and Martha the year before. And Aunt Cordy herself was as short and round and red as a tomato. Bertha thought that she needn't make it sound like a _bad_ thing to be tall!

"The Blythes are _always_ tall," she said haughtily.

"The Wrights _never_ are," said Aunt Cordy just as haughtily.

They faced off against each other for a moment, two stubborn souls pitted against each other over something trivial. But isn't the most stubbornness is brought out over the most trivial things?

They might have stood that way all afternoon, except Dorothy, sweet Dorothy, came down the stairs with some thing in her hand.

"I thought you might like these, dear," she said, proffering the ribbons. "Aunt Cordy is right – the dress is a little shabby, but not terribly so -- but if we put these ribbons at the neck and waist it will look quite pretty, don't you think?"

"I do think," said Bertha, giving Dorothy a hug around the waist and a quick kiss. "Thank you, darling. But are you sure – that you want to give me your new ribbons?"

"Oh, yes!" Dorothy nodded, her black curls flying. "I'd just wear them to school or something trivial – it's _you_ who are going to be standing up and singing in front of the whole congregation at the Sunday school concert."

"And you'd best not forget the words and run away," said Aunt Cordy. Dorothy colored prettily.

"Of course I had to run away – I couldn't stand to see all those faces looking at me. I'm so glad no one has ever asked me to sing at a concert again. I – I don't even think I could do it for a good cause like our war effort. But I'm not half so good as Birdie. And Bertha would never run away, Aunt Cordy. Don't you _ever_ get nervous, Bertha?"

"Hardly ever," said Bertha staunchly. "Sometime I feel a little fluttering of butterfly wings in my tummy, but Master Giacomo says a _true_ professional swallows down her fear and does not let it stand in the way of a good performance."

"Is that furriner of yours going to come to the concert?" Aunt Cordy wanted to know.

"_Please_ don't call him that, Aunt Cordy. I don't know if he will come or not. He was dreadfully upset when he heard that I was going to be singing in a church concert."

"Of course he was," said Aunt Cordy grimly. "I've never seen _him_ in a church in all his years in Avonlea."

"That's because he's a Catholic," said Dorothy patiently.

"A priest comes from Shrewsbury every month to give him Holy Communion!" Bertha was more indignant. "And Master Giacomo has nothing against our church. He only thinks that singing hymns is not as great a challenge for me as the opera. He thinks it makes me slow. He wants me to do more serious music. _Musica liturgica_, he says, is for nuns and schoolchildren."

"Don't speak that Italian nonsense, child," said Aunt Cordy. "What if someone were to overhear? These are dangerous times we live in. We are fighting a war against all of Mister Giacomo's countrymen and I daresay he wants to fill your head with as much of their wickedness as he can."

"Aunt Cor_de_lia! Master Giacomo is a good Canadian, just like you and me! And he hates Mussolini as much as we do. And he _is_ a good Christian. Oh, I love the old church hymns. Do you all want to hear what I've decided to sing?"

"Oh, yes!" said Dorothy, and Aunt Cordy, who was not used to being rebuffed said, "I suppose."

Bertha sat down at the piano and began to play. She sang for a while in her sweet, silvery voice and on the last verses, Dorothy and Aunt Cordy joined in,

_Our God, our help in ages past,  
Our hope for years to come,  
Be Thou our guard while troubles last,  
And our eternal home._

There were tears in Aunt Cordy's eyes as Bertha played the last chord. "Oh Auntie!" she cried. "That is why I love hymns – the opera never affects you so."

"That's because I can't understand a word of it." Aunt Cordy blew her nose. "'While troubles last' – pray God they will be over soon!"

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Dorothy walked back with Bertha to Green Gables. They always walked through the Haunted Wood together, ever since they were small and scared to go through it alone. Of course they weren't now, but they had been afraid of it many years ago. It was so _shadowy_. And ever so often a bough overhead would sway in the wind and creak ominously. Grandfather Wright always smiled when he saw them walk together, the sun shining on the red hair and the black.

"Anne and Diana," he would say. "Just like old times."

The Wood was no longer a place for ghost stories – over the years it had somehow changed into a place for gossip and secrets.

"Have you got another letter from the man in Boston?"

"Oh! Dorothy, yes – of course I had to write him after his last letter. I couldn't bear not to – Mother says I shouldn't pester him. But I _needed_ to know more about dear Hester Gray. It sounds like this Mr. Gray's grandmother is the last person living who knew her. But – Hester wasn't a bit like I imagined!"

"What was she like?"

"I'll read it to you." Bertha took the letter from the top of her stocking. "Dear Miss Wright – pleased to hear from you – in response to your questions – here it is!" She cleared her throat and read.

"'Grand was only too happy to talk about Aunt Hester. She remembers her well. Apparently they looked nothing alike. Grand is very short, and she once had pale gold hair and brown eyes. Hester was tall and striking – her hair was copper and she wore it wound about her head. When it was undone, Grand says it reached to her feet. Her eyes were blue and she had a fair, creamy skin with cheeks like English roses.' In short, Dorothy, Hester was _nothing_ like I expected her to be! I always thought she would have lovely, raven hair – and violet eyes – and yes! An alabaster brow! But she sounds – ordinary."

"I rather think she sounds like you," said Dorothy amiably. "And you aren't ordinary, Birdie. What else does Mr. Gray say about Hester?"

"'Aunt Hester wore white dresses with colored sashes and a pair of lovely pearl earrings that belonged to her mother. She wore them every day. I hope this satisfies your curiosity. Grand has a lovely portrait of her in the house in Boston. It is too bad that Hester Gray lived before the age of the photograph – I'd like to have one to send to you. In response to your other question –' well, there's no more about Hester Gray."

"What other question?"

Bertha colored. "Oh – my curiosity got away with me, I suppose. I – I wanted to know more about Mr. Gray. You know how I am about asking questions. So I asked what he did and what Boston was like."

"And what does he do? What is Boston like?"

"That's the interesting thing. I thought he must be very old judging from his letters but he isn't – he's a student. He is studying at – at Harvard is what it says – and he is twenty-one years old. He has two sisters and two brothers and he is the baby of them all. He is studying the law but he likes to read poetry. He sent me a clipping from his school magazine, _The Advocate_, and it's so lovely. He writes two whole pages on Boston and says it is the best place to live in the whole world. I am going to write him back and tell him that he is wrong – Avonlea is the best place."

"Mr. Gray must be very grateful that you found his grandmother's ring."

"He is – he mentions it in every paragraph almost. And she sounds like a dear lady, Doss – she sends me a message in every letter he writes."

"Here is Teddy coming up the lane," Dorothy blew him a kiss. "That means it's almost supper-time – I must fly. I'll baste those ribbons on the dress to-night and it will be ready in time for the concert. Oh! Birdie, you will come and help me in my Victory Garden tomorrow, won't you?"

"Yes," said Bertha, "But I hate working in the vegetable patch, Doss. I so much prefer to tend flowers – to look at them all through the spring and to _know_ that I helped create some beauty in the world."

"Soldiers can't eat flowers," said Dorothy practically. "And you're as fond of turnips as you are of tulips once supper rolls around."


	4. A Summer's Day

"Dear Mr. Gray," Bertha wrote, at the white-washed writing desk in her east gable room.

"How nice of you to write me back – and ask me so many questions about myself! I love telling people about myself. I know it sounds horrid to say so – but I do. I always ask other people about _themselves_ too, so I'm not terribly self-centered, I don't think. It's just that every time I sit down and really _think_ about who I am, and what I like, and the things I don't like, I discover something new, something I didn't know before, about _me_.

"For instance, the other day at supper Mother asked me what I thought of Aunt Cordy's new dog. She found it one day while she was coming back from the church supper – a poor, little, helpless thing, with a bruised paw. It didn't seem to belong to anyone and so she brought it home and now it is hers, and follows her everywhere with its tail wagging. It's quite adorable – but always yapping and chasing squirrels and chewing things that are left on the floor. I told Mother that I thought dogs were a lot of work. Then I realized that I didn't really _like_ dogs – I much prefer cats. _That_ is something I didn't know about myself before. It is easier to be yourself around a cat – dogs are always expecting something of you.

"Perhaps you have a dog, at your home in Boston? I have a cat named Coat-of-Many-Colors. He looks just as he sounds. I'd be terribly offended if anyone said to me that they didn't like cats because I like him so much. If you do have a dog, I hope this hasn't offended _you_. I do like dogs all right 'in their place.' That is, consequently, exactly what Aunt Cordy says when anyone asks her if she likes cats. And children.

"I live at Green Gables – how sad it makes me to write to you at 'Beacon Street' only! Doesn't your house have a _name_? I feel that a house with a name has a personality. Green Gables does. It has been in my family for four generations now. My grandmother Blythe grew up here. Green Gables is very lovely and quiet and – and watchful, as if it is re-remembering all of the good times that every happened here.

"From my bedroom window I can look out on our garden, and past that is the old orchard and then fields and fields of ripe wheat. They look like a golden sea. We will harvest the wheat soon. My father is a farmer part of the year. The rest of the year he writes music for radio programmes and advertisements. I am glad that father writes music for it is such an interesting job for a father to have. I am glad he is a farmer, too, because I like having our own fresh bread. We _never_ have store-bought bread at Green Gables. Most of our wheat this year will be sent to Ottawa for the troops, and it makes me feel good to think that our boys overseas will have good Green Gables bread to give them strength to fight.

"I hope you don't think all the war-talk is dreadfully dull. I know that the States have not joined the fight – yet. Dad seems to think they will. But we have been in it for a year almost! It seems like just yesterday it all began. I have three cousins who are overseas. They are my Glen St. Mary cousins and I rarely see them. But I think of them so often. I never thought of them so often before they went but now, at the strangest times, I wonder how they are doing. Last night when I was snuggling down in my bed I wondered very suddenly where Gilly and Owen and Walter were sleeping. And all of a sudden I couldn't enjoy my comfortable bed half as much, and there was a great lump in my throat that I had to swallow hard around.

"I shall write about something _nicer_, now. I feel that same lump now and I want to swallow it down. If I don't I feel as though I might cry and _I never cry_. Master Giacomo, my singing teacher, says that crying is what simple people do when they can't think of a better way to solve their problems. My cousin Dorothy is very sweet, and I told myself once that if I couldn't be as sweet as her I would at least be _brave_.

"Dorothy lives at Orchard Slope. So do Uncle Fred and Aunt Polly, and Georgie and Martha and the baby Lois. Aunt Cordy takes care of them. I say she bosses them to death. Aunt Cordy takes such good care of them that Orchard Slope is not a very _fun_ place to be. I sometimes don't dare to _breathe_ over there for fear of moving the _air_ out of place.

"Lone Willow Farm is better. That is where Grandmother and Grandfather Wright live. They are very jolly and their house is named for the one, lone willow tree that looms over it like a watchful mother. I love to climb that tree – I feel as if I can see for miles when I do. Grandmother Wright is so lovely but quite fat and worried about getting fatter. She doesn't eat any cakes or cookies but she loves to cook and so she makes me and Teddy come over and eat everything she bakes so _she_ won't!

Teddy – Teddy is my twin and my best friend in the whole world. Everyone says we look alike but I don't believe it. Teddy is so handsome, you see. Everything about him is. Of course we have the same red hair but his is nearly auburn. And we are freckled but Teddy's freckles _suit him_. Even his name is handsome: Frederick Edward Wright. Doesn't that sound dashing? _I _am just plain Bertha Anne. Plain in name and appearance I fear. But if I can't be good-looking myself I am glad I have a brother that is.

We have our futures all planned out, Teddy and I do. He is going to be a famous composer one day and write music, real music – operas. He is writing one now, about Elaine the Lily-maid, called _Down to Camelot_. It will be finished by the time he grows the rest of the way up and then I will sing Elaine on the stage for him. We practise it now in the old orchard, and oh! It is so sad. Sometimes I can barely stand to get through her last, tragic aria for fear of weeping.

But I always do get through it. It wouldn't be _professional_ otherwise.

Have I told you how lovely summer is on PEI? It is the most golden, gorgeous, sunshiney thing. From my window I can hear the crickets chirping in the meadow and the velvety darkness is just beginning to creep over the harbor hill on little cat feet. Oh, I _do_ hope you like cats. I don't think we will be able to be _true kindred spirits_ if you don't. I already consider you a friend – isn't that odd? And friends we will remain, even if you are a 'dog-person.' But wouldn't it be so nice to be 'race of Josephy' with one another? That is a term that my Grandmother Blythe uses to describe people who really _understand_ the same things about the world. I can tell by the poem you sent in your last letter that you and I understand the same things. Even with all the worry and the sadness – with a war going on half the world away – the world is still very lovely at times.

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Bertha ran the short distance to Master Giacomo's house. The sun was warm on her bright hair and she was so happy as she went that she could not help singing. Oh, those lovely June lilies by the road! Mother would love to have them for her dressing table. But there was no time to stop or she would be late. Bertha blew the nodding lilies a kiss. She was kindred to all flowers but a sister to the lazy, happy lilies.

Master Giacomo was sitting on his front porch and there were tears running down his face. The door was open to let the heat out and from somewhere there was the low hum of a radio.

"They have taken Paris," he wept. "_Testa rossa, _they have taken my Paris. She, who is the heart of Europe and so beautiful. And now she is gone."

Bertha felt a queer sudden coldness despite the heat. "Dad said the Germans would never reach Paris."

"They have and they have taken her!" Master Giacomo cried. "Oh, City of Light, what a City of Sorrow you are today!"

There was no singing lesson that day. Bertha went slowly home, the chill that had settled around her still lingering. She was blind to the lilies, though they waved at her. Mother and Dad had turned the phonograph off and were listening to the radio. So it must be true. Bertha climbed the stairs to her east gable room and through of the letter she had just penned to Jordan Gray. She picked up her pen now and added one last line, her white hand trembling and her face stunned. 'the world is still very lovely at times,' she had written. Now she added, _Isn't it_?

As if she were suddenly not sure.


	5. Sunday on the Homefront

"The world _is_ very lovely," Jordan Gray wrote back quickly. So quickly that Bertha thought he must have written the very same day her letter came in the mail. His writing was black and hurried, as if his message were of the utmost importance.

Bertha studied his letters. What could you tell from a person by his handwriting? Her own was a mish-mashed copperplate – her thoughts came to her so fast that she did not have the time to worry if she dotted her i's and crossed her t's. She flitted from idea to idea as rapidly as a bee from flower to flower, and her letters were consequently full of crossings-out and ink splotches.

But Jordan Gray's writing was clear and precise. He never crossed anything out. Bertha supposed he must spend some time deliberating over each word before he put it down in print. She thought that he must be careful, and very wise. For her always knew the right thing to say. And he did understand, for he wrote now,

"You mustn't be afraid to think the world is lovely, even though there are hardships in it. There were always terrible things in the world, even before the war began. Just as there will always be things in the world that are very beautiful. There is one, low star hanging over Beacon Hill tonight like a fairy-planet. No matter what terrible things come to pass, that star will be there, every night, and as long as it is there, the world will have some beauty in it no matter what else happens."

"You must be a remarkable kid. I don't remember caring so terribly much about the grand scheme of the world when I was your age. When I was your age! I feel quite foolish writing that from the 'lofty height' of one-and-twenty. When I was fifteen, I wanted to read interesting things, meet interesting people, and play football. I am ashamed of my old self. I do wish I could have been more like you, Bertha, when I was your age. ('When I was your age!' There I go again!) But remember, you mustn't let the weight of the world settle on your shoulders just yet. Fifteen is meant for being as light and airy and flimsy as a cloud. But I'm glad you occasionally let your feet touch the ground. I think that means you will be a remarkable woman some day."

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The Wright thing to do on Sunday evenings was to have supper together as a clan. They traded off weeks. It was one of Bertha's favorite things.

To have all the folks she loved the best around one table. Good food – all the Wrights were cooks who _could_ cook. Happy chatter as everyone talked at once, their voices rising in a noisy, clangy, happy din. It was like heaven. It was _home_.

But Bertha loved most the times – like now – after supper had been eaten and the plates cleared, when the men retreated to Dad's study or Uncle Fred's porch to smoke cigars and discuss the war effort. Bertha loved to hear the low rumble of their voices come muffled through the open windows. The phonograph played softly while Mary and Martha played paper-dolls on the living room rug. Mother and Aunt Polly swapped recipes lazily while they drank their after-dinner tea – it had used to be coffee but they hadn't had coffee in so long now – Mother leaning her shining crimson head on her slim hand and Aunt Polly's great bosoms resting on the table. Teddy had disappeared into the stables to practise his violin and the sweet strains of it mingled with everything else and gave the atmosphere a tinge of bittersweetness.

Even Aunt Cordy looked content and happy with the baby sleeping at her breast. Bertha wondered what Aunt Cordy was thinking as she bent her grizzled head over the baby and lulled her to dreamland. Was she imagining that little Lois was her own? Did she regret that she had never gotten married and had children herself? Aunt Cordy began now to sing a low, soft lullaby and Bertha had a flash of sudden memory and remembered Aunt Cordy singing the same song to her many years ago. Her heart turned over – _dear_ Aunt Cordy – and Dorothy squeezed her hand under the table, so Bertha would know she was thinking the same thing.

"Sit up straight, Dorothy, for heaven's sake," said Aunt Cordy when she caught their eyes upon her, and sat up straighter herself.

"Look at your Lois, Polly," said Mother, admiring the baby's sleeping face in the low lamplight. "Isn't she a perfect, golden thing? Doesn't it seem just yesterday that all our brood were babies?"

"And now they are grown up, Di. I fancied myself a grownup when I was half Dossie's age. What they must be thinking of us, under their hair. I wonder if they think we are as mouldy and dull as I thought all grownups were when I was fifteen?"

"I'm sure they do," Mother twinkled. As if anyone could ever think dear Mother, with her stylish clothes and dainty wrists and charming voice – dull! Not Mother. Or Aunt Polly, or any of them. Bertha realised that there were people in the world who might think all of them, herself included, dull – because they lived in Avonlea, and farmed, and made their own bread, and were wholesome and happy and good. But she understood in that moment for the first time in her life that no one was dull who had something to _give_. It was only a question of taking whatever a person offered to you. Some people did not know how to receive the things they were given – just as others had never learned how to give. Bertha felt sorry – sorry from the bottom of her heart – for those people.

"Look at Georgie out on the verandah with the men," Mother said. "Doesn't he make you feel old? Polly, I remember when I first held him – he was the littlest thing. And now, by the light of the moon, I swear he's almost a man. Why – Poll! What's wrong?"

For the smile had slipped almost completely off Aunt Polly's face. Under the table Dorothy squeezed Bertha's hand again.

"Dear?" asked Mother. "Was it something I said?"

"No." Aunt Polly composed herself. "Di," she said, laying her hands out flat on the table and looking at them. "Georgie's joined up, Di. He's going."

"Oh – Polly!" cried Mother. Bertha looked at Dorothy, who, too, was looking down. Mary and Martha had stopped playing with their paper dolls and were staring up with wide, resigned eyes. Only Aunt Cordelia continued to do as she had done before. She rocked the baby, and sang the little song under her breath.

"When – how …?"

"He told us this morning. I won't lie – we don't want him to go. But we've all been expecting this for a while now, since he turned eighteen. It's been hard. But – I think I would have been more worried if he _didn't _want to go. Oh, that sounds so terrible – as if I wanted him to…"

"I know what you mean," said Mother softly, putting her arm around Aunt Polly's shoulders. "I think it's wonderful, Polly. To have such a brave son. I am proud of Georgie. We all should be. There's no greater thing a man can do than fight for his country. God bless him – and what he is about to do."

Mother always knew the right thing to say.

But as they walked back to Green Gables, Mother and Dad hand in hand, Bertha and Teddy walking alongside them, Mother's voice trembled. She spoke in a low voice, but not so low that they could not hear her.

"Rilla's Gilbert – and Owen – and Jem's Walt – and now Georgie. And – soon – it will be Teddy, Jack."

"It'll all be over before Teddy's turn comes," said Dad, and his voice was sure and comforting.

But Bertha, looking at her solemn, quiet brother as he walked, pensively, with his violin under his arm, knew Mother did not believe him. She knew Teddy's turn _would_ come.


	6. Good Night, My Friend

"Georgie had a very dignified send off," wrote Bertha to Jordan Gray. "It couldn't have come at a better time of year, I thought when we were waving good-bye to him, because it's autumn here with a vengeance and the maple trees down by the station are as crimson as crimson can be. I couldn't help thinking that the whole thing looked like something out of a film, or an advertisement from one of the recruiting pamphlets. And _then_ I felt simply dreadful for writing such a thing when I was supposed to be saying good-bye to Georgie. Dorothy's face was rapt and she had her hands clasped – I could hear her mumuring a prayer under her breath. And here I was, thinking of how everything _looked_. It seemed shallow, somehow.

"I have a funny story for you – at least I think it is funny – I wonder if you will? You don't know any of the players, after all. But I will tell you anyway! Mother joined the I.O.D.E. today, after swearing up and down a stack of Bibles that she would never do such a thing. You see, the I.O.D.E. stands for 'Imperial Order of the Daughters of the Empire' and is a group of prim and proper ladies who are horrid gossips and meddlers. Every time they meet down at the church hall Dad says it's their annual Convention to Stamp Out Fun. What they really do are charitable good works. But you'd think they could be more charitable in their daily lives! The 'Regent' of the Avonlea chapter, Mrs. Herbert Gillis, tells me it is a pity I am a red head every time she sees me. Mrs. _Harmon Andrews_ is an I.O.D.E. You don't know her, of course, but I _know_ you can imagine her. Even Aunt Cordy thinks the I.O.D.E.s are too much!

"Well, Mother disappeared mysteriously after dinner today. We all wondered where she had gotten to, and supposed she had just gone on one of her afternoon rambles. Mother does that sometimes. She slunk into the kitchen while Teddy and I were doing homework and she might have made it past us if Dad hadn't suddenly said,

"'Ho, there, Di darling! What's that on your shoulder?'

"Mother groaned and turned around guiltily. 'I've joined them, Jack,' she said, 'The ranks of the wicked.' And we saw her I.O.D.E badge pinned to her coat.

"Dad chortled. 'After you always said you wouldn't! Diana, what _has_ come over you? Are you suddenly very concerned with the cleanliness of other people's kitchens? Or whether young girls stand up straight? Di, Di darling, don't tell me that _you_ want to stamp out fun!'

"'No,' said Mother, with a funny smile on her face. 'But I have suddenly taken an interest in our boys overseas. And whether they are warm at night in the trenches. And I _do_ want to make sure that I do my part.'

"'Oh, Di,' said Dad, taking her up in his arms. 'I'm sorry I teased you.'

"'It's quite alright,' said Mother, and then she looked at me! 'It is a pity,' she said, a perfect imitation of Mrs. Herbert Gillis, 'That your hair is _so_ exceedingly red.'

"'Are you laughing over the story, even though the cast is unknown to you? I hope so. I – I hope you don't mind that I write you from time to time. Perhaps you are busy with your studies and I am bothering you. I have never had a pen-pal before and so it is a new experience for me. I like new experiences. And I know it sounds silly, but I rather feel like our lives are entangled in a way, since I found your grandmother's ring (I _do_ hope that she is recovering nicely from her cold!). But – if you don't want me to write – just say the word, and I won't anymore."

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"Let's get one thing straight," wrote Jordan Gray. "There won't be anymore talk of you 'bothering' me. Do you know, Bertha, I look for a letter from you whenever I check my mail-box? I can't think of a reason why I would look for your letters except that I like getting them. They are entertaining, and as a student of the venerable institution of Harvard Law, I'm afraid I don't get much entertainment. I know you are destined to be a _prima diva_ but if you weren't I'd say there was something of a writer budding in you, little friend.

"The I.O.D.E. sounds an awful lot like the Daughters of the American Revolution, to which my mother and my Aunt Sarah devotedly belong. They, too, meet once a month to tear some poor unfortunate soul's reputation to shreds – ahem, to 'preserve American history.' Only my mother and Aunt Sarah don't see any of the humor in what they do. You know, Bertha, at times I think your letters conjure up a sense of home to me that is homier than my real home. Our house on Beacon Street is too big and too imposing, with too many fireplaces and never any fires. Does that paint a picture for you? My father works too much and my mother doesn't work enough. My brothers and sisters have grown up and gone away. I occasionally miss Emmeline, who was closest to me in age, when I think of her at all. I am sure she never thinks of me. She has five children of her own to keep her busy.

"When I read about Green Gables I feel homesick for – what? I don't think I have ever had anything like it to be homesick _for_. To tell the truth, I will be glad to get out of Beacon Hill – and I don't think I'll ever _want_ to go back to it when I leave. If it wasn't for Grand, I'd freeze to death here.

"Speaking of that esteemed lady, she sends you her warmest regards, and I think she is thinking of writing to you herself one of these days. If you get a letter from her you must prize it above rubies, for Grand never writes anyone. It is a terrible breach of etiquette but she says at ninety-two she can do whatever she pleases and we all agree with her.

"I'm glad we've reached an understanding about the other thing – and just to make sure you believe me I'll tell you this: I've fifty pages of history to read tonight by the light of my poor desk lamp but I'd give my right arm for another letter from you – a charming, diverting little missal to fill me in my empty spots. But since I don't have one, to history-land I shall go. So long for now, pal, and thanks for the Carman you sent. It's perfect for this time of year."

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"…I had a lesson with Master Giacomo today and it was – " Bertha chewed her pen and tried to think of the right word. "It was _interesting_. We have finally stopped working on Dorabella's 'Implacable Tragedies.' Master Giacomo said we might as well leave it alone because I've 'done my best with it.' When Master Giacomo says that I have 'done my best' with something he really means I've disappointed him and that he wants to drown me in the gulf. So now I am learning the part of Paris Helen from _La Belle Helene _and working on her aria, _Amors Divins_. Master Giacomo is greatly displeased with my performance so far.

"'You have no passion!" he cried. "Where is the passion, _Rossa_? You must feel it. Pretend you are Helen, beautiful Helen."

I _can't_ pretend to be as beautiful as Helen of Troy. Not even my imagination would allow me to pretend such a thing. But Master Giacomo would have none of it.

"'The best Helen I ever seen on stage was a woman with a wart on the end of her nose! She was _brutto_, oh so ugly! But she could sing! Not like another Helen I see who is _bella_ and oh, she cannot sing. I have seen many beautiful woman. I have loved many women, _molta bellissima_ oh, _Rossa_, you would not believe …'

"Master Giacomo has loved a great many women and he loves nothing better than to talk about them for hours on end at the slightest prompting – which is sometimes _no_ prompting at all. Sometimes – I rather think my parents wouldn't approve of some of Master Giacomo's stories. I know for certain Aunt Cordy wouldn't.

"Speaking of Aunt Cordy, she was up at Green Gables today to teach me to knit. I don't especially _want_ to know how, but I would like to help Mother with her sewing and contribute _something_ to the war effort. I am currently knitting the ugliest scarf known to man and when it is done I will send it to you, Jordan. I feel sure you will love it – it really is a hideously bad scarf, done in a particularly ugly shade of Harvard crimson."

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"A scarf like that sounds too good to refuse! I shall wear it with pride as I walk the streets of Cambridge. All my peers have lovely cashmere things with insignias on them, but they are dime a dozen in any shop, and there is only one Hideous Scarf done by Bertha Wright of Avonlea, PEI.

"I was glad to hear that you did so well in your mid-semester grades, little pal. _Especially_ your marks in Latin. I can't really stress enough how important it is to learn Latin – and Greek, if you can manage it. There is nothing like reading the 'ancient texts' in their true languages – the language of Homer, and Catullus, and Ovid and Aristotle himself. It will open new doors for you, and restore some lost magic in the world, I think. Don't I sound like a schoolmaster? I'm ashamed of myself. You must think me old and boring. So I'll stop this sage-like advice and tell you instead of an adventure I had.

"Did I write to you that I've broken my ankle? Well – I have. A particularly aggressive football game against Yale did me in. I'm fine and recovering nicely, but need a crutch to get around. I went to the post office today with one arm holding my crutch and the other full of books. And what do I get in my mailbox but a parcel from sister Emmeline, as big as my head. I looked at it in dismay, for how was I to hold my crutch, carry my books _and _carry my parcel?

"I thought for a moment about asking someone to help, to carry my books for me. But Bertha, I don't like being an invalid and my pride wouldn't allow me to ask. I thought about leaving the parcel at the office and getting it some other time – but then I had a flash of brilliance. I tucked the parcel under one arm, took up my crutch with the other, and then _balanced the stack of books on my head, _just as you see the natives do with their jugs in baskets in the old National Geographics. I walked the entire length of Harvard Square in such fashion, without dropping them even once, and when I finally got home I was as pleased with myself as if I'd won some sort of prize. I'm happy to report that I have now left the law behind for ever and joined the circus!

"It's Thanksgiving here next week and it's sure to be a jolly event, with Father and Mother barely talking and Grandmother's eyes twinkling mischeviously over every silence. How I wish your Aunt Polly were here to make one of her famous pies. Mother isn't a very good cook. Last year some of Father's clients came to dinner and Mother wanted to impress them so she had our maid, Shulamite, roast a turkey. Mother fully intended to pass it off as her own. Poor Shula had never cooked a turkey from the grocer's before, and so she didn't know to look inside and pull out the innards. Shula brought that turkey to the table with the insides still in it, and the look on Mother's face, after she had bragged about 'her' cooking, was priceless.

"There's a light snow falling, here. Bertha, have you heard that no two snowflakes are alike? Don't you wish you had the time to go and look at each one, so you could know for _sure_? Good night, my friend.


	7. Christmas Victory

The grays and browns of November were gone. Overnight, the world had been transformed. Green Gables awoke on the first morning in December to the muffled stillness of the first, gentle snowfall. Bertha sat in her nightgown and watched the snowflakes tumbling over themselves in their hurry to cover the world in white. She kept matins at the window until the first glow of sunrise was seen along the eastern shore. When Teddy awoke, his twin was sitting on his bed with a gleeful look.

"Christmas is coming!" she cried.

"It comes every year," said Teddy matter-of-factly. Bertha thought again that it was really a pity Teddy had inherited so much of the Wright prose.

"Yes – but _this_ Christmas has never come before," she told him. "Oh, Teddy, it's such a magical time of year – even war Christmases are – even though we can't have sugar and coffee and presents galore. There's something _inherently magical_ in the season. Even Green Gables seems more green and gable-y during the holidays."

The whole world seemed festive. At school they read _A Christmas Carol _in English class, Bertha thrilling to her toes when poor Mr. Scrooge was visited by the specters. Everyone was full of secret plans and doors were quickly closed and packages rushed out of sight when someone came into a room. Master Giacomo gave up on _La Belle Helene _for the time being, and he and Bertha worked on the Christmas parts of _The Messiah_.Teddy practiced carols on his violin, and they all sang together while roasting chestnuts in the apple-wood fire.

Bertha tramped down to the Haunted Wood one day and returned with armfuls of spruce and ivy, which she wound liberally around the banisters and placed on every flat surface in the house. Big striped bows were tied to the railings and a wreath of red berries hung on the door. Bertha disdained the old tradition of mistletoe, but delighted in the fact that a short, white candle was placed in every window of Green Gables that faced the road.

"So that everyone going past will have a Christmassy feeling," she gloated.

Even the war news seemed to come at an easier pace. What would later be known as Operation Compass had begun close to the Holy Land. Tibruk fell to the British in the first days of the month – they all held their breath as the Allies began their march from Sidi Barrani to El-Agheila and thanked God each day that the mighty army surged ahead.

"It's no coincidence that our 'Christmas victory' will come in the very land that Christ was born," said Mr. Wright, and Bertha, dimpling, quoted a stanza she had sung that afternoon,

"The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light: and they that dwell in the land of the shadow of death, upon them hath the light shined."

"Thank goodness Christmas spirit can't be rationed," said Mrs. Wright.

It was Green Gables' turn to host the family dinner – last year they had been at Orchard Slope – the year before that at Lone Willow Farm – and before _that_ at Ingleside. "Then I was just a child," said Bertha seriously. "Oh, Mother – this is going to be my first _grown up _Christmas at Green Gables and I want to help you as much as possible. I have so many _plans_. We haven't enough sugar for tea-cakes but Rose Gillis gave me the dearest recipe for something called 'barm brack' that doesn't need sugar at all! And you hide little trinkets in it, with ribbons, and people pull them out and make a wish! I've already started embroidering little snowflakes on our napkins – when I'm not doing my Red Cross sewing, that is – and oh, _won't_ you let me decorate the table with a cloud of blue spruce, Mother? It has such a delicious scent – and can't there be sprigs of holly at every plate?"

"As long as you leave room enough for everyone to eat, darling."

There was only one dark spot on the festivity. Dorothy moped – Dorothy, who never really moped – it couldn't be called actual moping. But she was low. It was Georgie's first Christmas away from home. Bertha loved Georgie, of course. She had burned with patriotic fever when she found out he was to go – cried when they waved him off at the Bright River station – but as soon as he was gone it was as if he had been gone always. It was just that Georgie was so quiet, and always on the edges of things, and to tell the truth, Bertha's dreamy young soul could not quite understand his prosaic stolidity. Dorothy, however, was devoted to him.

"And oh, Birdie, it will be _so hard_ to see his empty place at the table."

Bertha said as much to her mother, who remarked,

"I've been thinking about that – Bertha, how would you like to invite Master Giacomo to eat some of our goose?"

"Mother, do you mean it? Oh, Doss, we'll have a full table this year even if Georgie can't be with us! And Aunt Cordy will have a fit. She'll be shocked – _she_ doesn't think an Italian can possibly be a good Christian. Won't my fine Cordelia be surprised to see him eating Christmas supper at our table?"

"Is he a Christian though, Birdie? He never goes to church…"

"Doss! Don't get all Aunt Cordy-ish on _me_. _That_ would ruin the season completely."

An invitation was duly issued and to their surprise, Master Giacomo accepted. But then Aunt Cordy _did_ catch wind of it and caused such a ruckus that Mrs. Wright went into a temper! Mother, Bertha thought, simply amazed – Mother, who was the kindest, gentlest person alive! In a temper!

"You may stay home alone at Orchard Slope, then, Cordelia," said Mrs. Wright coldly, after Aunt Cordy had voiced her grumblings. "And for one who goes on ­– so – about Christian decency, you are certainly forgetting the first tenet of the good book – love thy neighbor."

"We're not neighbors exactly," protested Aunt Cordelia.

"Cross lots is close enough," Mother pointed out. "And anyway, the Bible doesn't make a distinction."

"Have you forgotten our Georgie is fighting them Italians?"

"The Germans, actually," said her brother casually, from behind his news-paper.

"He's _not_ fighting Master Giacomo," his wife said. "We'll miss you, but if you simply won't eat your goose with him, it can't be helped."

Aunt Cordy had not expected little "Di Blythe," as she still thought of her brother's wife, to stand so firm. It was the Shirley stubbornness, she thought. She hemmed and hawed and finally, grudgingly, consented to attend. Mrs. Wright winked with the side of her face that was near Bertha and Teddy, and kept the rest of it calm and composed. She had known that Cordelia would give in, when all was said and done.

"What a terror she must have been as a sister!" said Diana to Jack, as Aunt Cordy made her way home through the frosty night air.

"You're telling _me_," said her husband, as they stood together in the warm lamplight and waved Aunt Cordy off.

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A week before Christmas, a brown paper package came in the post for Bertha.

"Is it from your friend in Boston?" asked Mrs. Wright kindly.

"Open it!" cried Dorothy and Martha, who had come home from school with the twins.

Bertha unwrapped the paper with hands trembling from excitement. There was a letter folded in with the parcel, a letter on onion-thin paper, written not in Jordan's familiar hand, but the spidery script of the very old, wavery from lack of use.

_Dear Miss Wright, _it read,

_I have not forgotten that you have given me something very precious and I will not forget it until my dying day. And in return I wanted to send _you _something precious of your own. These earrings and this necklace belonged to my sister, Hester Gray. They belonged to our mother and she wore them when she was married and nearly every day after that. How many times did I see her working in her dear garden with these very jewels on! When Hester died, they passed to me, and now they are yours. I suppose I could keep them but pearls are for the young and make me feel old. And I want you to know how truly grateful I am, indeed, _

_Your friend_

_VIRGINIA GRAY. _

"It's something from Grand! The famous Grand, Jordan wrote to me about her!"

Bertha tore open the parcel and there, gleaming against velvet, were the milkiest pearl earrings, set in heavy dully-luminous gold, with a string of pearls and a filigree clasp. They had about them the aura of jewels that have always been worn lovingly by very beautiful women. Bertha clasped the pearls around her slim white throat and clipped the earrings on her lovely ears, where they shone with radiant luster against her red hair.

The moment she put them on she felt like another person entirely. She had never had any nice jewelry to wear besides a silver bangle bracelet given to her by Grandmother Wright. The weight of the pearls round her throat seemed to rest comfortably on her flighty young soul and mellow it. She turned to face her audience and Dorothy clapped her hands together.

"Oh, Birdie! You look simply lovely."

"They suit you," said Martha, with a critical air.

"It's – too much of a gift," said Bertha softly, through smiling lips. "I can't keep them – can I, Mother?"

"I think it would be rude to return them," said Mrs. Wright. "After all, Mrs. Gray wanted you to have them, Bertha. But you must write her a thank-you note."

"Of course!" cried Bertha, and ran to her room to do it. "And I'll write Jordan too – and tell him how pleased I am. What a wonderful present!"

"Be sure to tell him that they suit you," called Martha, as Bertha whirled up the stairs in a fervor of delight.

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Bertha wore the pearls with her Christmas dress – a pretty brown tafty dress, with cream cotton lace at the collar and cuffs. It was a present from Mother and Dad – the little gold buckle shoes – with _heels_, albeit low ones, were from Auntie Nan. Bertha waved a kiss in the direction of what she reckoned to be Glen St. Mary every time she looked down and saw them on her feet. She had a set of music books from Grandmother and Grandfather Blythe – a recording of _Pinafore_ from Grandmother and Grandfather Wright – and a pound of chocolate coins in her stocking from Teddy. Doss had given her a set of lovely lavender stationery and a roll of stamps. Aunt Cordy had given her a little silver wallet with her initials on it, which was an uncharacteristic present, and which Bertha loved.

"But the best present will be if Aunt Cordy behaves herself while Master Giacomo is here," said Bertha doubtfully. She had her doubts. Just minutes ago Aunt Cordy had said,

"When is the furriner going to get here? I do hope he'll be dressed appropriately."

Master Giacomo had a terrible habit of wearing patched pants and shirts with frayed cuffs, but today, miraculously, he was wearing a black suit that Bertha had never seen before – a black suit with tails! – and a starched shirt and bowtie. His hair was slicked back and he had shiny patent shoes on his feet. He looked as if he would pick up his baton at any moment and begin to conduct an invisible orchestra. He clicked his heels together and bowed to Mrs. Wright, and then did the same to Aunt Polly and Aunt Cordy.

"It's lovely to see you," said Mr. Wright. "Won't you sit down?"

They had a lovely dinner. Aunt Cordy did not say anything objectionable. But then, Aunt Cordy made a point of not saying anything at all. Perhaps Master Giacomo felt it too, for when they had eaten the last of the goose, he stood and said,

"How good – it is so good of you to have me to your house. And now I have a present for you."

"You don't need to give us anything," said Mrs. Wright. "Simply having you here is enough, Mr. Giacomo."

"Nonsense!" he cried. "I will sing for you. _Testa Rossa, _you will play for me. Come."

Bertha took her place at the piano and began to play the opening chords of the music that Master Giacomo had given her. At the sound of the familiar strains tears jumped into her eyes, and Master Giacomo began to sing, in a high, bright tenor,

_For unto us a Child is born, unto us a Son is given: and the government shall be upon His shoulder…_

Bertha looked out over their rapt faces in the firelight as Master Giacomo sang,

_His name shall be called Wonderful! Counsellor! the mighty God, the everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace._

His voice rose higher and higher and all around them – it dipped low and confidentially – it rang out with the joy of that first Christmas morning – it soared with triumph. Master Giacomo sang the last note, Bertha played the last chord, and then they began to clap, one by one, even Aunt Cordy – Aunt Polly putting her hands together so fast her chins wobbled – Grandmother Wright smiling her gentle smile and even Mr. Wright with tears in his eyes. Mrs. Wright rose to her feet and crossed the room quickly to drop a kiss on Master Giacomo's wrinkled cheek.

"I can't think of a better present," she said, putting her hand in his. "Thank you."

Master Giacomo clicked his heels together again, bowed, and was gone.

"I suppose you must admit he's a Christian now, Aunt Cordy?" asked Bertha with a saucy toss of her head.

"Of a sort," was Aunt Cordy's remark.

"All in all, have you enjoyed your Christmas?" asked Mrs. Wright, when she and Bertha were washing the supper dishes.

Bertha fingered the strand of pearls at her throat and thought back to Master Giacomo's lovely voice, rising and soaring like a living thing.

"All in all – it's been delightful," she said.

"


	8. A Falling Out

"How strange it is to mark the date as '1941,'" wrote Bertha to Jordan Gray in the new year. "It seems like I'd just gotten used to writing '1940' and now it's a different year entirely. I said as much to dad when I came home tonight and he said, 'So goes time by,' and sighed. Dad rarely sighs. I think I know how he feels. I am beginning to realize that there are only so many days for each of us on this earth, and I can't help feeling sorry now when one is gone. It won't come again. But I suppose that is 'growing up.' Although I must not be completely grown yet because I still wake each morning with the delicious feeling that _so many _wonderful things can happen before the day is out.

"Today _hasn't _been one of my wonder-days. Today feels flat, although there were lovely parts. I've been to my first _real_ party tonight, you see. Of course I've been to hayrides and teas and birthday gatherings and church suppers – but the I.O.D.E. put on a dance to raise money for the war-effort and mother said that Teddy and I might go. It took some convincing for Aunt Polly to let Dorothy come along with us but she finally relented. I spent the last two weeks deciding what dress I would wear, with what shoes, and how I would wear my hair. Last night I could hardly sleep and today I was excited and expectant almost to distraction.

"And then when we got there I had the curious sense of being on the fringes of things, on the outside looking in. I thought longingly of Green Gables and the fire in the hearth and the music on the radio and mother's low voice and dad's laughter. I wished I was there. It was just so strange to see everyone whirling about the ballroom, coupled off neatly into pairs. Even Dorothy and Teddy took most of their turns about the floor with each other.

"I wasn't a wallflower so you mustn't think this is sour grapes. I just expected it to be so _romantic_ and it wasn't. The music was too loud and there were far too much gossiping and whispering for it to be really refined. I expected it to be like something out of an old novel, with gentle ladies and courtly, distinguished men. Boys who were school chums kept asking me to dance with them and when I did they stepped on my toes and sweated and stammered and _breathed_ on me. And I couldn't help thinking that they were –_trying_ – to flirt with me! Abner Sloane, who sits next to me in history class, trying to 'gaze sentimentally' at me with his goggly eyes – flirting with me!

"I seemed to be the only person who didn't have the time of her life. Even Gloria Pye got over her sulks and danced with Teddy – twice. I think she has set her sights on him, now, and I don't like that at all. Oh, Jordan, I wish I could have Romance with a capital 'R' – the sweet Romance of the fir woods and sunsets and morning views of the sea, and Tennyson and Keats – and not have to worry about _romance_.

"So that was my first party, and now it's over. I thought it would be better. That is the bad part about having an imagination, I suppose – the one drawback. Sometimes you imagine things will be lovely and then they aren't quite as lovely as you thought."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"You're a homebody, that's all," Jordan wrote back after a week's delay. "Like me. I'd much rather spend my evenings in a group of friends – with a good book – reading poetry to Grand – skating on the Charles – writing a long letter to _you_. I still remember _my_ first dance – I was about your age – and I was awkward and gangly and no one wanted to dance with me. I wanted desperately to dance with one girl in particular – isn't it strange but I can't remember her name, though I still remember her face. She was lovely, but she didn't want to dance with me. She scorned me, Bertha, and I went home crushed and wished I was a girl so I could cry into my pillow. I know your first dance was a disappointment but – it could be worse.

"Dances and parties get better, the more you go to them. Or at least, they become more tolerable. Alice – my girl-friend – loves to go out to dances and parties and so I have to squire her to them nightly, it seems. It's a miracle I have any time at all to study. But Alice loves to dance and I tell myself that I love Alice, so I put up with all the dances she drags me to."

Bertha set the letter down on her desk and looked at it in some surprise. So Jordan – chum Jordan – had a girl-friend? A great gulf widened between them that was far greater that the physical distance between Avonlea and Boston. In one short moment Bertha conjured a picture in her mind of what Alice must be like. Golden curls – sky-blue eyes – a tinkling laugh. Bertha hated cold, tinkling laughs. It was much better to have a rich, rosy laugh. Wasn't it?

She was sure that Alice wore high heels – had long legs – and a mouthful of white, perfect American teeth. And she wouldn't be a dowdy country girl. Couldn't be, if she lived in Boston. Oh, how she must laugh at her boy-friend's naïve little PEI pen-pal! Perhaps Jordan read her bits from Bertha's letters, and they laughed over them together! It was too much. Bertha writhed with the embarrassment of it all. Her face flamed. But she took the letter back in her hand and read the rest. Why was it that she should want to know more about Alice when she didn't want to know there was an Alice at all?

Jordan hadn't written anything else about Alice. "Cheer up, kidlet," he wrote. "You're bound to fall in love some time and when you do you'll think back on Your Old Self as a goose. You'll have your fill of romance with a lowercase 'r' when the time is right."

Patronizing, condescending tone! Kidlet! _Goose_! This was one letter that Bertha did not paste carefully into her scrap-book. She balled it tightly in her fists and fumed. Jordan Gray needn't take such a lofty tone with _her_. Dancing with Alice nearly every night – well! She would give him more time to do it. Bertha didn't care if she ever got another letter from Jordan Gray – and she knew that this was the last letter she would ever, ever send to him. For him and Alice to laugh over!

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"The Lend-Lease Act! How exciting!" Dorothy's blue eyes, brighter than the sky, burned with patriotic fervor. "Father says that it won't be long before the States come into the war and when that happens – well, it'll be over soon."

Bertha nodded. Her own father said the same thing. She scuffed her boots through the messy, melting snow. Why did the changing of the seasons have to be such a wet, unbeautiful spring? Why couldn't one go from the snows of winter right into the spring sweetness.

"April showers bring may-flowers," sang Doss, just as though she knew what Bertha was thinking. Only _why_ did she have to be so optimistic? Sometimes, Bertha thought, she could shake Doss. Always looking on the bright side of things. "Oh, Birdie, I'm _proud_ of the Yankees today!"

"I don't see why – they aren't so amazing." Bertha tossed her red head like a flag. "They should have joined up ages ago."

"Bird! You sound like Auntie Di's stories of Mrs. Rachel Lynde! Have you thought about your Victory Garden yet? I've already drawn up plans for setting mine out. I'm going to try my hand with snap-beans this year. Georgie loves snap-beans – oh, Birdie, isn't it wonderful to think that this time next year Georgie could be _home_? He will be – if the States join in the fight. Have you had any news from Jordan about it? What does he think?"

"It is a matter of supreme in difference to me what _that person_ thinks," said Bertha loftily, and before Doss could open her mouth, she ran into the house and slammed the door behind her.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Haven't had a letter from you in a while," wrote Jordan Gray. Obliviously! Of course he was oblivious, Bertha thought, scowling. It was just _like_ him to go on as if nothing had happened. "Are you well? I hope you haven't been ill. We've had a heck of a time here in Boston this winter with all sorts of ailments. Mother had tonsillitis – twice – Father's lumbago 'acted up' – I had the sniffles and sneezies for weeks on end. But Grand – Grand had pneumonia and we were all very worried about her for a few days. But she pulled through – she always does – she's sitting up in bed and her eyes are bright but not feverish and she's sassed the maid so I know she's feeling herself again. It's funny – you never realize how much someone means to you until there's a chance you might lose them.

"We've all a touch of spring fever now – every where boys are making eyes at girls and the girls are doing their best to get all the sidelong glances they can. This is the one time of the year that I don't mind dancing – and Alice has a cold! And I'm sure by the time she's well I'll be back to my old stance on fetes. _You_ know. Well, I suppose you're busy – but I hope to hear from you soon."

Bertha set the letter aside with a mocking look. A cold! _Poor_ Alice! Too bad it wasn't fatal!

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Mr. Wright drove the young people to Carmody to see _Sergeant York_ in the theatre and within five minutes of the opening Bertha knew that Alice must look _exactly_ like Joan Leslie who played Gracie Williams. All wavy hair and scornful eyes! She could hardly bear to sit through the film once she _realized_. And Teddy and Dorothy didn't think anything wrong! They whispered to each other throughout the whole film in that secret language of catch-phrases that they had. Bertha smarted. Teddy was _her_ twin. But she supposed he would rather talk to Doss than to her!

She sat for a long while in front of her mirror that night. She gave her hair the customary hundred strokes and it gleamed in the lamplight. _Her_ hair was just as nice and ripply as Joan Leslie's. But – it was red. Did anyone _really_ like red hair? She scrutinized her face.

Why had she never noticed before how high her forehead was? Double any other person's forehead. Her nose was too small – too wide. Her chin was really absurdly small and pointed – like a fox's. And there were one, two, three – four – _seven_ freckles smattered across her pale cheeks. Bertha sighed. She had hoped one day she would outgrow her freckles but it seemed that her freckles were outgrowing _her_.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Glad to hear you haven't been ill, friend. Only – I didn't hear it from you! But from the nice, chatty long letter you wrote Grand. It was nice of you to write and make sure she was recovering nicely – she is – only, Bertha, why aren't you writing to _me_? It's terribly self-centered to say but I'm jealous. I want a letter from you – a nice letter – a long, chatty letter – full of homey tidbits about Green Gables and your own fresh view of things. I've written you four, count'em, _four_, letters, and I haven't had one from you since the year was born. And, darn it, I want to know why. Have you suddenly decided you don't like fellows with the initial 'J'? Are you tired of hearing what I think about things? Did I say something to offend you?

"Have we had a falling out?"


	9. The Thaw

Bertha fell in love as quickly as a spring rainshower comes up out of the gulf and passes, leaving the world in its wake sparkling with droplets and dew. It was a thunderbolt from the sky, a heaven sent revelation, a thousand other things meant to describe a sudden shock that things were suddenly different from how they had always been.

In fact, the passing rain-shower might have had something to do with it. April showers had indeed brought mayflowers this year. The world was awash in daffodils, cheerful, jaunty daffodils that told her, yes – yes! Always yes. The cherry tree was covered in white, fragrant, delicate lady-blossoms – ferns were shyly uncurled in deep and shadowy hidden dells – the early roses were out, and whiffs of their fragrance carried like secrets on the wind. Hester Gray's garden was a plane of yellow and white narcissi.

Here is how it happened. "Aunt" Dora Andrews, who lived with her husband at the old Silas Sloane place, had a visit from her grown-up nephew. Cal Andrews was tall and strapping and looked exceptionally dashing in his RCAF uniform. He was a city-boy, born and raised in Winnipeg, and a favorite of his Grandmother Jane. But he held close to his heart the summers he had spent in his family's 'cottage' near the shore – a mansion might have been a more apt name for those lodgings – and he wanted to see 'old PEI' again before he shipped out. So he came for two weeks and because he was 'family' many suppers and occasions were planned to welcome him.

Bertha first saw him at church. Why – who was that young, golden, pilot going into the Andrews pew? All eyes were on him – he really was exceptionally handsome. For once in her life Bertha was completely distracted. Not even the lovely choir-piece could hold her fancy. She wished she had set her hair last night and writhed in agony to think that _he_ might see _her_ with her hair looking unruly. But then Bertha realized that though her eyes were glued to him, he had not looked back at her once. There was no chance of him noticing. She writhed again.

But then he was introduced to her in the churchyard – he called her 'cousin Bertha' – he shook her hand and tweaked the end of her pony-tail. All was well again! The world was a wonderful place. Bertha danced on air back to Green Gables and threw herself into her housework. Mother had invited _him_ to dinner the next afternoon!

He did not come. At the last moment he sent word that he had to go call on some of his mother's family in Carmody. He sent his apologies. Bertha was low to the point of melancholy. But Cal had also sent a sheaf of wax-lilies that perfumed the air so prettily. _How_ could he know that the wax-lilies were Bertha's favorite flower? Besides the roses – and the daffodils, of course. And cherry blossoms – did they count? None the less, she tucked one rosy stem behind her ear. It _had_ to mean _something_.

His family was throwing a dance for him at their summer-home. Bertha forgot the failure of her first party and threw herself into imagining out this one with a fervor heretofore unknown. She would wear her blue dress – no, her green one. Hadn't Aunt Nan told her once that green was her best color? And no one had such a way with clothes as Aunt Nan – not even mother. Her green dress, then – the one with the sash that made her waist look so small – and she would wear some of _his_ wax-lilies in her hair.

She talked about her plans for the dance for so long – and was so careful not to mention _his_ name – that Mrs. Wright and Mr. Wright exchanged amused smiles and Teddy rolled his eyes. Bertha could only confide her feelings in Dorothy, and after two straight days during which Cal Andrews was the sole topic of their conversation, even Doss was fed up.

"You don't even _know_ him, Bird!"

Upon which Bertha reflected that Doss was just jealous.

The dance, if not everything she had imagined it to be, was still wonderful. The guest of honor was surrounded by admirers but still managed to dance with her twice. One being the coveted 'last dance.' Bertha was ecstatic to the extent that she did not notice boys outnumbered girls two to one and that Cal danced twice with nearly every female creature in attendance. She only knew that _they_ danced two dances together – dances during which Bertha was so shy and heartstruck that she could not manage to speak, and only smiled up at him adoringly, which made her seem very meek and sweet indeed.

They rowed on Barry's Pond – had picnics in the tall, sweet grasses by the shore – dined by candlelight in the early evenings. Never alone. Always with the family. But Bertha was so besotted with him that the rest of them might have faded away into the woodwork. They might not have been there at all. They had a week of such lovely, rainbow-y days – and then – tragedy!

For Cal Andrews's visit was up. He must go off to camp to begin his air-training.

Bertha waved him off at the station in her little green suit and hat. He clasped her hand and kissed her cheek – just as he had done with Doss. But with Bertha he said,

"So long, sweetheart."

Sweetheart! A warm feeling began in her chest and spread outwards until her fingers and toes were tingling. Cal kissed his Aunt Dora and boarded the train. Bertha's knees began to knock together. When he leaned out to wave once more to them she began to tremble. She realized at once that these were the symptoms of love. She was in love! And now the train was pulling out of the station, slowly, but gathering speed. He was going – going – she loved him – he was almost gone – the train rounded the bend and he was out of sight. And – perhaps – she would never see him again! At that thought, Bertha burst into tears with a vehemence that startled them all.

She spent the rest of the morning moping in Hester Gray's garden. After dinner she cried her eyes out in her east gable room. Mrs. Wright listened outside the door with a wry smile on her face. So the poor dear had become infatuated with cousin Cal! Mrs. Wright knocked and knocked on the door of the chamber but the tear-stained girl within refused to grant admittance.

"Oh, Mother, I _can't_ see you," she moaned. "I must _be alone_ with my _grief_."

More pathetic, feeble sobs from within.

It must be admitted that Mrs. Wright rolled her eyes.

Aunt Cordy did the same when the pale, red-eyed girl finally came out of her room under the pretence of eating supper. It _was _only a pretence – Bertha moved the food around on her plate with her fork and knife but not a bite passed her down-turned lips.

"What foolishness!" humphed Aunt Cordy. Bertha turned her woeful, stricken eyes away. _Of course_ Aunt Cordy wouldn't understand. Doss and Teddy ran out together to the music room. Teddy was working on a new operetta and since Bertha would not sing, Doss had taken the part of _Evangeline_. They did not understand, either. The last straw was when Mrs. Wright _insisted_ that Bertha go to school. Apparently, thought Bertha sarcastically, the loss of one's _first love_ was not an adequate reason to stay home! She had expected more from mother! Did _no one_ understand?

There was one person that might. Bertha went to her desk and pulled out a sheet of lavender paper, picked up her pen, and began to write.

"Dear Jordan …"


	10. Bertha Rises to the Occasion

"Late spring is almost too beautiful," mused Bertha, as she and Dorothy walked arm in arm down 'The Avenue.' It was as close to summer as spring can get and still remain spring, and the trees overhead were as white and delightful as that long ago day when one red-headed orphan had beheld them for the first time.

Dorothy remained mum; the bowers of snowy white blossoms overhead held little beauty for her that day. Her eyes were suspiciously red-ringed. The hard fighting overseas combined with the lack of news from Georgie led to many sleepless nights, and tears cried into that little damsel's pillow. Just that morning Diana Wright had watched the two set off from Green Gables with their canvassing materials in hand and was suddenly reminded of her own troubled youth during the years of the Great War – of a velvety, black-browed lad that had laid down his life by taking up arms – and her own eyes had gotten misty and far away. She had wanted so much happiness for her daughter – and son – were their happy youths to be taken away from them, too? What sacrifices would they be called to make?

They had all been so happy when the British Navy sank the _Bismarck_ – the terror of the seas – but the Germans had been steadily moving forward on the Eastern Front. Russia was in peril. The Nazis crossed the River Dneiper in Ukraine. Tobruk, whose capture by the Allies they had reveled over at Christmas, fell to the Axis. It was, as Bertha put it, as if "everything was coming apart at the seams, all at once."

Yugoslavia and Greece surrendered to the Nazis and the horrible _swastika_ flew over Athens and Belgrade. German bombs were still falling on English cities, and weird, ghastly tales of atrocities against the Chosen People were beginning to be circulated. Gruesome tales that left them with a bad taste in their mouths and fear branded on their hearts.

And in the middle of this, spring came, ripened into summer, and was beautiful. How could it be?

Bertha and Dorothy – and the other Avonlea youth – had undertaken a massive project to collect war-bond subscriptions. That farming community was overrun with young fry going door to door to sign up contributors. There was a prize for the person who collected the most names – a maple pin – and a Victory Bond flag, _plus_ a letter of commendation from Lord Tweedsmuir _and_ the honor of appearing at the head of the district collection lists in the newspaper.

Bertha would have loved to win the pin and the flag and have her name in the paper, but that _wasn't_ the reason she strapped on her sash and took up her pamphlets every day after school, and on the weekends when her chores were done. She went out because she wanted to help – and because the Avonlea city council had taken to displaying a certain poster that made her blood run cold. It pictured a young mother and her baby, with the icy hands of the Germans reaching out to grab her. KEEP THESE HANDS OFF! It ordered. BUY WAR BONDS.

The only thing was that no one seemed willing to _buy_ them. The people who wanted them bought during the First Victory Loan Campaign. Everyone else couldn't afford them or couldn't be bothered to buy them at all. The girls were turned away at almost every house – kindly at some, and positively run off the place at others.

"I believe the Pyes are the worst folk in the world," said Bertha disagreeably, after Mrs. Roger Pye had shut the door in their expectant, patriotic faces. "I was counting on the Pyes to put up a nominal subscription at least. No one else has had the nerve to ask them yet, so we were to be the first. I thought old Rose Pye would rather die that appear unpatriotic, but I guess she doesn't care how she looks to us. She can always deny that we asked her if anyone brings it up and it will be her word against ours and she will come out on top, because she is an adult and we are young people. I don't think that's fair."

"Rose Pye has four sons and none of them have any thought of joining up," said Dorothy, with the entitlement of one who has already dispatched someone she loves. "We've been to at least ten houses today – most of them Pyes – and how many subscriptions do we have, Birdie?"

"Two." Bertha was dejected. "One from Mr. Lorenzo White, Jr. for fifty dollars – he's a terribly cheap – and one from Master Giacomo for one-hundred dollars – which he won't be able to pay. He barely has enough to get by as it is, but it was nice of him to make the offer. I won't mention it to him again – I couldn't bear to think of him not being able to eat because we embarrassed him into taking a subscription. But I thought it would embarrass him more not to be asked at all. Oh, Doss, do we have to go to any more houses? The next one on this road is Mr. Howard Blair's – and their son was just killed, you know. I should think that they more than anyone else would want to subscribe but I can't face their grief right now. I know it is selfish, Doss, but can't we just go home? Having doors shut in your face is the worst feeling under the sun."

"_Not_ having to say goodbye to Cal Inglis?" asked Dorothy with a roguish smile. "I thought _that_ was the worst."

Bertha felt very silly and tossed her head. Over the past few months the flame of ardor in her breast for cousin Cal had dimmed in his absence – and then was entirely snuffed out. Every day doings had pushed him from her mind for a time, and when she remembered to think of him again she felt curiously blank where once she had burned with admiration. Of course she wished him well, but she was beginning to think her declarations of love. But, as she confided in Jordan Gray,

"I do believe this whole experience has prepared me for 'r'omance – with a small 'r' – whenever it _actually_ comes."

"Thank heaven for that," wrote Jordan Gray back.

"We aren't going home," Dorothy continued. "I've just had the _best_ idea, Bird. Hear me out. It's 'tourist season,' as Uncle Jack says, and the White Sands hotel is simply filled with rich visitors. There is one Mr. Algernon McTavish visiting from Alberta – he made his money in the mines there – and no one has asked him yet. You saw him in church last week – the fat, pompous little man! I heard him say that patriotic feeling was the result of 'government indoctrination' and nothing else and he won't be indoctrinated – so he hasn't given a cent to the war effort and he can certainly spare it! I mean to march up there and ask him to – and if he won't, I mean to shame him into doing it. He _should_ be ashamed of himself. And you _are_ coming with me, Birdie, because if you didn't I should die of fright to go alone – and I mean to do this!"

This was quite a speech from the frail, shy Dorothy and Bertha was cowed into submission. The girls set off for White Sands.

It was a long walk over unpaved roads, and when they arrived the girls were hot and dusty. A steward showed them into the sitting room after they asked to speak with Mr. McTavish and they waited there, both stricken, both with failing courage. Presently Mr. McTavish burst in, the very caricature of a millionaire, with a vest that strained over his fat stomach and a cigar, unlit, clenched between his teeth. He looked none too pleased.

"What the divvil?" he said. "Steward told me there was someone to see me and now that I've let my curiosity run away with me and pulled myself from my dinner to see who it was and what they wanted – I find two little whippets! What means this?"

Whippets! It was like a slap to their pride. Both girls recoiled, Bertha with indignation and Doss with fright. But then pale Dorothy gathered herself up with some vestiges of spirit and said, very clearly,

"We are certainly very sorry to interrupt your dinner, Mr. McTavish," – oh, how poor Dorothy trembled to behold his fiery countenance – "We really didn't mean to and we would have waited for you to be done if we had known…"

"Get to the point," McTavish said tersely.

All of Doss's courage had gone. "We have come to ask you to buy a subscription for war bonds if you can," she murmured, beginning to flush in her cheeks and looking down at her dusty slippers.

Mr. McTavish stared at her as if she had grown another head. "No, thank you," he said bluntly and as he turned to leave, Bertha heard her own voice come, quite unbidden, out of the hidden depths of her spirit.

"At least you remembered to say thank you," she said sarcastically. Bertha had inherited Aunt Cordy's talent for speaking sarcastically. It was very effective. Mr. McTavish stopped in his tracks, and slowly turned round to face her.

"What the divvil did the redheaded one say?" he asked no one in particular.

"I said, 'at least you remembered to say thank you.'" Bertha was shaking now with righteous indignation. "What I should have said was, 'You should be ashamed of yourself!' A rich man like you – you _should_ buy war bonds, as many as you can. Poorer ones than you have taken them, even though they can scarce afford them."

"How do you know how rich I am?"

"One only has to look at you to see." Bertha tossed her head and her red hair – so besmirched – flew out behind her. Dorothy trembled but held her ground.

"And why _should_ I buy war bonds? Even if I am rich, it's my money, isn't it? To do with as I please?"

"Yes – but you should please to spend it this way. Our boys need every cent we can muster if they're going to win the fight. How would you like it if Canada loses the war? Canada will be a German colony then – and I don't think even _you_ would like that very much."

The sarcasm Bertha infused into that _you_ was really scathing. But Mr. McTavish was not so easily persuaded.

"What's wrong with the Germans except that we don't believe the same things they do?" he asked. "Aren't they the same as you and me, but with different thoughts and feelings?"

"The Germans are a bloodthirsty nation of power-hungry, cruel-hearted people," said Bertha forthrightly. "They –"

"Oh, stop." Mr. McTavish waved his fat, beringed hand. "What a load of claptrap. Who told you that? Your mother? Your schoolteacher? Did you read it on a piece of government propaganda? I see the indoctrination has spread to Canada's children. You're just like all the other narrow-minded, small-brained folks in this little backwater village. I'll tell you what," he addressed this remark to Bertha _and_ Dorothy. "If either of you can convince me that you're _not_ just like all the other base folks in this godforsaken hick place, I'll take a thousand dollar bond. Tell me something interesting. Do something. Stand on your head. Surprise me. You can do it. And if you can't I'm going to box both sets of ears and send you packing. You've got ten seconds. Now, go."

Mr. McTavish sat down on the sofa with the amused air of one who knows that he can't be bested. Dorothy racked her brain trying to think of something that would sway him. But Bertha took a step forward, clasped her hands, and began to sing.

She sang for five minutes, a whole aria, her voice as clear and pure as it had ever been, her presence poised, her chin tilted up and determined. Even Doss forgot to be afraid while it lasted. When Bertha had finished, after the last, sweet, ringing note had died away, she folded her hands and dropped to the ground in a grand curtsy, dipping her head gracefully, a serene smile on her face. When she rose, however, she was defiant. Her flashing gray eyes were a challenge.

Mr. McTavish still had the amused look on his face, but his eyes were kindly, now. That is how Bertha knew she had won. He tapped his chin with one fat finger and said,

"I suppose you'd better give me those subscription materials, girl. You were right – I don't think anyone else in these parts could sing like that. You've certainly distinguished yourself. Agrippina's _Se giunge un dispetto_ **– **trying to be cute or something, eh? Denouncing me for my 'treachery,' eh? Well, I'll take a subscription for five hundred dollars. Just as I promised."

"A thousand," said Bertha staunchly. "_That's_ what you promised."

"Did I? Well, there you go. I'll take one for a thousand."

The transaction was duly conducted. Mr. McTavish handed over his cheque and looked at the girls with frank admiration.

"The little pale, dark-haired one is the prettier of the two of you – don't deny it, Beauty, I dare say you both know it. But there's pretty girls a dime a dozen like you and I've never heard a voice like _hers_. You'll be on the stage one day, Russet, if these good Christian folks don't quash your will to do it. You won't sing anything else for me? It's been a while since I've heard such pretty singing. One more piece, to make and old man happy?"

"I will – if you take another subscription," laughed Bertha. She was having one of her wonder-moments.

"No thank you," said Mr. McTavish. "I've parted with enough of my hard-earned cash for one day. Well, be off with you. And resist any and all government indoctrination. The Germans are a cruel race of folks, but think that for _yourselves_. And – keep singing, Russet. You're bound to do it anyway, whether I tell you to or not."

"For once," smiled Bertha, pink-cheeked, the troubles of the morning lifted temporarily from her shoulders, "I think I've given a performance that would _not_ make Master Giacomo want to drown me in the gulf."


	11. The Old Year Wanes

When the lists came out, Bertha found that she and Dorothy led the district in bond subscriptions. The maple pin was theirs – the Victory Bond flag, too – and Lord Tweedsmuir wrote the expected letter. And Bertha finally had her name in the paper! Aunt Cordy sniffed and sniffed over that.

Mr. McTavish had them both to tea at the dining room at White Sands and was so hospitable and courteous to them that Dorothy immediately forgave him. Bertha took a while longer, but when McTavish took them to his suite to introduce them to his Persian cat, Bertha thawed the rest of the way.

"I _can't_ dislike a person who likes cats," she said, half defiantly, stroking the purring beast's white fur. "But I _don't_ like Persian cats – not very much, at least. I much prefer a striped barn cat – a cat with a hint of wildness about it. Persians are so _haughty_ – and they _don't_ like to be cuddled."

"Now, now! Queen Bess would have something to say about that," Mr. McTavish said cajolingly. "She snuggles on my pillow and nearly smothers me every night. And she _is_ haughty, I'll admit – but I like that. After all, she is _Queen _Bess. And I'm a millionaire, miss, as you said. A barn cat wouldn't suit me. But I think even if I wasn't I'd like Persians. I think cats should be dignified. Bess carries it to extremes, though, I'll admit. Sometimes she goes days without speaking to me. But still I bring her with me wherever I go. Bess has been to every continent except Antarctica. I keep telling her that one day I'll take her there, too. She likes that, does Bess."

"Why do you take her everywhere with you?" asked Dorothy curiously.

"A man needs _someone_ to talk to," said Mr. McTavish.

"But Bess can't talk back."

"Exactly!" Mr. McTavish roared with laughter so that his massive belly shook. "Listen to that cat's purr, girls. Wouldn't you each like a cat like that? I'll buy one for each of you if you just say the word. Wouldn't you like one, Beauty – and you, too, Russet?"

"No, thank you," said Bertha, with a quick look at Dorothy. "But it's awfully kind of you to offer."

Before the girls went away Bertha sang for Mr. McTavish again at his request. When she had finished, she looked at him, eyes limpid and smiling.

"Do you know what I just sang for you?" she asked gravely, but with a dimple showing at her cheek.

"Of course I do! I'm not a Philistine as all that. It was the Contessa's part from _Figaro_ – _Piú dolcile io sono_ – where she offers her forgiveness. Does that mean you forgive me, girl?"

"I do," laughed Bertha, feeling so bold as to throw her arms around the man in an embrace. She even kissed his fat red cheek. Doss was shocked, but Mr. McTavish roared and patted her head. "It is surprising – I didn't expect it of you when we first met – but I think you might be of the race that knows Joseph after all."

"The race that knows Joseph!" cried Mr. McTavish. "I've never heard that before but I know instinctually what it means. Yes, I am of the race that knows Joseph under my skin. It just goes to show that appearances can be deceiving. How old are you, girl?"

"Fifteen – but sixteen in August."

"A voice like that at fifteen! I'll be, girl – I'll be."

Mr. McTavish waved them both off from the White Sands verandah when the stars were beginning to come out. He looked after them for a long while and mused to himself.

"Two sweet girls – two very sweet girls," he told Queen Bess. "The one of them's the prettiest thing I've laid eyes on. All crimson and black and pale. And she hasn't much to say, and I like that in a woman. But the other one, the russet one – there's something about her I can't explain, even to myself. A voice like that in a girl of fifteen – sixteen in August! Something must be done for her – yes, something must be done about that. She mustn't be allowed to stagnate in this little backwater. A pretty place – true enough – but still a backwater. No, she mustn't hide here under her bushel forever. A voice like that's too good a thing to waste."

Queen Bess purred her agreement.

"What a wonderful story this will be to write to Jordan," thought Bertha to herself, as she made her way home through the twilight.

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"Teddy and I are sixteen today," wrote Bertha to Jordan one lovely day in late summer, the anniversary of her birth. "We woke up at dawn and went down to Hester Gray's garden to talk things out. We do this every year. Sort of a twin heart-to-heart. We tell each other of our hopes and dreams for the coming year and make all sorts of lovely, rainbow plans.

"But this year I had the distinct suspicion that Teddy wasn't telling me _everything_. In the interest of full disclosure I told him all about my 'crush' on Cal. But Teddy was mysteriously mum on the topic of romance. I've felt intuitively for some time that he is in love with someone – I can't say _how_ I know. I just do – I always know these things about Teddy. I'm terribly afraid it's Gloria Pye. She's taken to hanging around the place so. I hate Gloria Pye. How shall I describe her to you? I want you to get a sense of her _true_ Pyeishness. Shall I tell you about the backless dress she wore to church last Sunday? No, that doesn't quite sum her up. What about the horrible, sickly, _fake_ rose perfume she simply drenches herself in? It is an affront to all _real_ roses. But that just tells you she has poor taste in perfume. I shall tell you instead what she said to Bess Gillis when Bess's brother was wounded overseas. Gloria actually said she envied Bess – that it must be so _exciting_ for her. That sums up Gloria's character perfectly, I think.

"Teddy denied having anything to do with her. After Gloria, the only other girls he sees are Doss and me. I wish he would just _tell _me. But I suppose he will – if it is, indeed, true – when the time is right.

"We had word from Georgie today and _that_ was present enough for me. He hasn't been wounded – it was only that his unit was advancing under heavy fire and he hadn't time to write. But he finally _did_ have the time and I'm so glad that his letter came in time for my birthday. Does that make me selfish? I would have been glad if it had come at any time, but I was so glad to have everyone in better spirits on my day of days. The haunted, worried look has gone from Dorothy's eyes and Aunt Polly was so happy she sat down and cried, and then got up and baked the plummiest birthday cake she could given the current state of rationing. But it _is_ nice to get other presents, too. I've had heaps of them – the most surprising from Mr. McTavish himself. He has gone back to Alberta and I expected him to forget all about me, but he hasn't. He's sent me a set of really good recordings of famous divas' performances. He says he expects me to have my own recording one day. To Doss he sent a beautiful smoke-gray Persian kitten – he says he could see in her eyes that she really wanted one but was afraid to ask.

"Sixteen! It should be marvelous and a bird-song and a rainbow in one. But I'll settle for simple _pleasantness_. As Aunt Cordy says, 'that's all one can hope for in this world!'

"Poor Aunt Cordy! To think that's _all_. Of course I'll _hope_ for the rainbows."

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But rainbows were scarce that year. The autumn of 1941 was dismal. It seemed that season as though everything went wrong. It started off well enough. The Island marked the beginning of Canada's third year of war and patriotic fervor ran high. All of the Green Gables and Orchard Slope folks took the Reconsecration Pledge and vowed to dedicate themselves to war work more than ever before. Even old Grandfather Wright finally gave in and got his wife to teach him how to knit. He was on his second pair of army socks, and very proud of them, though he warned his wife not to tell anyone outside the family that he had made them.

"But they'd be so impressed!" said Grandmother Wright. "You've done a real good job with them, Fred, even if I did have to set the heel for you."

"All the same, Diana," said her husband staunchly. "Don't breathe a word."

But then the tone changed. The hideous, snaking German line on the eastern front moved forward into Russia. The Nazis took Odessa, Kharkov, and Sevastopol in a matter of weeks. Moscow was in peril – Moscow, the 'White Town' of the north, with its elegant onion domes, and its now not-impenetrable city walls.

"It seems so strange," wrote Bertha to Jordan, "To wake each morning and have my first thoughts turn to a city so far away, that I have never seen. I probably won't ever see it. But my thoughts all day are for its safety. Oh, surely the Germans won't reach it! They can't – they mustn't – it would be a great blow for the Allies if Moscow – the heart of Russia – were to fall."

It didn't fall – yet – for the moment it was still safe. Terror turned to the seas. The British carrier, _Ark Royal_, that had so valiantly sought and destroyed the _Bismarck_, was lost. In church that week they sang the old hymn,

_O! Hear us when we cry to thee_

_For those in peril on the sea_

Bertha sang through numb lips. The picture of sailors adrift on the icy, pitiless waves, was too vivid in her mind. Mrs. Wright knew how she felt.

"For once I wish I had a less vibrant imagination," she said, and her eyes were anxious.

"I pity the poor men who are sailors," said Mr. Wright, who had been an infantryman in the Great War. "In the army at least your feet are on solid ground no matter what happens."

"Won't good news come?" Jordan wrote to Bertha. "We are all so hungry for war news now. There is a sense of urgency everywhere now, of the hush before the storm. A perilous waiting – as if the final blow will come at any time – the last straw before the U.S. decides to take up arms and pitch in. I almost hope it will come – _almost_. It seems that anything would be better than this terrible waiting. Bertha, have you heard these strange reports coming over the wire – the Jews being treated so badly?"

They _had_ heard those reports – Jews being forced to wear stars on their clothing, branded like animals, herded into ghettos and left there to starve and freeze. Those were the reports – and there were more gruesome rumors still, of children being shot for stealing bread, babies dying, women beaten and men hung for no crimes other than the fact of their birth and faith.

"Oh, my God!" murmured Mrs. Wright.

"I can't concentrate on singing today," Bertha told Master Giacomo at her lesson. "It's no use asking me. I feel like a prisoner on the rack – _what_ will happen next?"

Master Giacomo nodded wisely. Perhaps he knew something of the kind of torment that was visited on the Jewish people. Perhaps he even had friends – or kin – among them. But the strange, fervent terror of the persecuted was visited upon him and he said nothing, not even to his _testa rossa_. There was no singing that day.

Then Rostov – on the Russian front – fell to the Germans. The Green Gables folks tried to console themselves with the fact that it was only a little town, a tiny town with no military significance, no real importance. But none of them really believed it.

"Some people would say the same thing about Avonlea," Mrs. Wright pointed out. "But it is important to _us_."

"Too far in – too far in," worried Mr. Wright. "They must take Moscow now – there's no way that they can't. Moscow is as good as fallen."

But it did not fall. Only a week after the Nazis had taken it, the Soviets recaptured their city on the shores of Lake Nero, their city of the Golden Ring. A small victory, but –

"I'll take what I can get," said Mr. Wright, daring to sigh in relief. "I shouldn't have underestimated the Russians – they always bounce back."

The Germans suffered from the blow, and the attack on Moscow was abandoned. They began their long, cold retreat through the snowy tundra.

"Moscow, the white city!" wrote Jordan in relief. "She has survived the Mongols, Napoleon's army, and now the Nazis. Bertha, let's go there one day, you and I. Shall we? And when we do, we'll light a candle at the Cathedral of Christ the Savior and thank God for the news that came today."

"I won't wait that long," said Bertha, eyes shining. That night she gave thanks with grateful fervor that the silent, strange, snowy city had been saved. The lamplight from her bedroom window cast a warm, luminous glow on the frozen ground outside, where the first soft snow of winter settled silently as it fell. It was December again. Another year was coming to a close.

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A/N: Things are beginning to move quickly! I'm sure everyone knows what is coming next. But are they moving too quickly? Let me know what you think. Review! And thanks for everyone who has reviewed so far.


	12. A Date Which Will Live in Infamy

_Everything will change, now, just wait and see. Bertha, today I'm proud – proud to be an American today. You can't know the feeling of relief in my heart that we've finally joined the fight. I'm soaring so high on a cloud of patriotic fever that I fear what will happen when I come back down to earth. I won't think of it now – I'll coast for a while longer yet on this feeling. But do you know – there is fear underneath, too. Because everything will change – has already changed – has changed forever. _

Bertha sang in a concert at White Sands on the evening of 6 December, an early holiday gala thrown in honor of a visiting patroness of the arts. It was a night of triumph for Bertha, but it hadn't started out that way. When Dorothy came up to her little gable room to help her dress, she found a pale, shivering girl, sitting before her mirror in a white slip. Her hands shook when she tried to brush her hair. Bertha – brave, shining Bertha – was nervous.

"I don't believe it!" cried Doss. "You look positively sick, dearest. Let me help you. How shall we do your hair? Up? No – I think it's better down. Let's just pull this top bit of it back – and leave those little tendrils in the front. My, you look like that picture of your Grandmother Blythe when she was a girl! Into your dress – nothing suits you so well as white, darling – and I'll buckle your shoes. Bertha, your hands are like ice!"

"Oh, I think I am going to faint," said an agonized Bertha. "I was doing quite well until Mrs. Thomas Pye mentioned to me that a famous American soprano will be singing tonight – I've just looked at the programme and she's on _right before me_. I don't know if I can follow such a distinguished singer and I've been tormenting myself all afternoon with horrible imaginings. Suppose they jeer at me, Doss?"

"The White Sands crowd is far too distinguished to jeer," Dorothy pointed out. "They wouldn't even if they didn't like you. And they _will_. They'll love you."

Bertha let out a shaky breath. It must be said that she was not much comforted by Dorothy's confidence in her. She writhed backstage during the American soprano's performance which really was phenomenal. But Bertha got no joy from it. When she took the stage she was pale and trembling. Only her mixture of Blythe and Wright pride kept her upright. The pianist played the first bars of her solo and all of a sudden, Bertha thought of a letter she had gotten from Jordan Gray just yesterday.

"Do you know you are a remarkable little thing?" he had written. "I was sitting for an exam last week and the moment I read the question I realized, Bertha, that _I couldn't write the answer_. I was crippled with fear until I remembered something you said to me once about being brave. So you see, you can inspire confidence in one you have never even met, across miles and miles of distance. And that _is_ truly remarkable."

"I won't be someone Jordan would be ashamed of," she thought, and right on cue began to sing.

It was not the best performance of her life – she was far too nervous for that – but her voice was high and pure if it trembled once or twice and she made such a pretty picture underneath the lights and fir garlands that the crowd was charmed by her. Bertha caught sight of Teddy's face as she took her bow and it was glowing with pride. Bertha exhaled all her breath in one _whoosh_ and hurried backstage where she could collapse with relief.

"I don't know if I am cut out to be a concert singer after all," she said to herself. "I couldn't stand another moment like that."

"I am very sorry to hear you say that," said the dimpled, glamorous American soprano, who had listened with delight as Bertha sang. "Because you have a great talent, my dear, and your reputation proceeds you. Archie McTavish told me to keep an ear out for you, and as always, he was right. You _do_ have talent."

After the exhausting whirlwind of a day, this praise buoyed her up. The American invited Bertha to stay for supper and introduced her to many rich and educated people.

"Won't you take a glass of champagne, Miss Wright?" asked one gentleman in a dashing tuxedo.

"Oh, no!" cried Bertha, without thinking. "I couldn't possibly. If Aunt Cordy ever heard of it she'd never let me hear the end of it."

The crowd roared and the man proposed a toast. "To Aunt Cordy!" he laughed, and the crowd roared, "Hear, hear!"

It was very late when Bertha got home, far past the witching hour. Mrs. Wright, who had waited up with a book, took one look at her daughter's tired face, the dark circles under her eyes, and decided to let the girl sleep as late as she wanted the next day. Bertha woke past noon and stretched out under her quilt, still tasting the previous night's success like wine. She dressed herself leisurely, and while she brushed her hair she replayed the American's soprano's praise over again in her mind. Talent – talent! The soprano had said so!

When Bertha finally made her way downstairs and she found the family clustered around the radio in the parlour. Uncle Fred and Aunt Polly, who had no radio of their own, were there with Aunt Cordy and Doss and Martha. The air hummed with an almost-electric charge of urgency. She had never seen so much of her family so still at once – the Wrights were a busy, chattering clan – and all about them was an air of waiting, expectant waiting – and something else.

"What has happened?" Bertha cried and they turned to face her, each face a mixture of equal parts hope and dread, sorrow and shock. They all looked at each other, and back at Bertha. How to tell her that the world had changed utterly while she was asleep?

"The Japanese have bombed the port of Pearl Harbor and the U.S. will enter the war," said Teddy, in that forthright way of his.

Bertha clasped her hands and laughed – then covered her mouth in surprise – then her eyes grew dark with the hint of a shadow crossing her face.

"We heard it this morning – just a few hours after you had gone to bed," said Mrs. Wright daring to smile in the face of chaos. She threw her arms around her husband. "Oh, Jack, the war will be over soon, now! With the Americans on our side we'll finish them off in a few months. And then our boys can come home – all of them."

Aunt Polly and Uncle Fred clasped hands, thinking of their boy who was so far away.

"Rap wood, Di," Mr. Wright said, afraid to be too hopeful. But they could all tell that he believed it, too.

"She needn't – this will change the whole face of the war." Uncle Fred was emphatic. "This is the turning of the tide, Jack. It's downhill for the Japs – and the Nazis – from here."

"I must get the folks at Ingleside on the 'phone," said Mrs. Wright, running into the kitchen and lifting the receiver. "I'm sure Jem and Faith will want to hear the news – if they have not heard it already – they had many friends in Hawaii when they were at the mission. I'm sure they are terribly worried about the ones there still. Bertha, Aunt Cordy made us breakfast and I've saved you some pancakes – Bertha! Why, where is the child going?" For Bertha had flown back upstairs.

"She's going to write to Jordan Gray," said Dorothy, her eyes shining, full of certainty.

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Bertha did write to Jordan – a hasty, hurried letter, and she put it in the mail that very day. She got one from him so soon after that she knew he had not yet gotten hers but had most likely sat down to write to her at the very same moment she was penning her letter to him. For the first time in their correspondence, she had a letter from Jordan with ink-spots. So he had written hurriedly, too.

The United States declared war on 8 December. Jordan wrote that he was happy – and sorrowful – and angry – and proud of his country. Bertha could feel each thing he had felt while writing. All in all it was what most everybody else was saying, except that there was one passage toward the end that made her blood freeze. She read it twice.

"This is the first foreign attack on American troops on American soil in a century. We thought it could never happen to us – that we were safe – but now it has happened. And every American who took his safety for granted during all of those years now has a debt to pay. Scores of men have fought throughout our country's history so that we could feel safe – impenetrable – for so long. And now a new generation of men must do the same so that those coming after us will have that safety, too.

"Do you know, Bertha, that I didn't go to class today? I was feeling too full of – something. Instead I lined up all my law tomes on the bookshelf and just _looked_ at them. What was important yesterday is meaningless today. What importance can books and papers and parties and football matches have now? There are far more pressing matters at hand."

"He is going to join up," Bertha whispered, handing the letter to Dorothy. She stood and went to her window, and looked out over the snow, leaning her troubled brow against the cool windowpane. Dorothy read over it and her brow furrowed.

"He doesn't _say _he's going to."

"He doesn't have to," Bertha said simply. "I _know_ him, Doss. I don't believe he knows it himself yet but – he is going to go."


	13. Clash of Wills

Cordelia Wright had very little time to herself. Her days were crowded full of little tasks, taking good care of her brother's brood. Sometimes a whole day would pass without any time for her to sit and rest her weary body which scurried and scoured and dressed and fed and cooked and soothed and did the million motherly duties which Cordy performed, though she was not mother, but aunt. She had a nagging suspicion that her thorough, efficient performance of these duties was not _really_ appreciated. But she did not mind. Truth be told, she quite enjoyed the necessary role she played in Orchard Slope day-to-day. It was nice to feel needed, if not _exactly_ appreciated.

Cordy knew that it would be easier for them all to appreciate her if she occasionally bit back the caustic remarks that rose so easily to her tongue. She thought often that she ought to stop herself from saying such bold, unpleasant things—or from saying commonplace things in an unpleasant way. Truthfully, she was always a little surprised whenever she made such a remark. You see, things came out sounding so different than she had intended them. For instance, at noon meal today, she had told Mary to keep her elbows off the table. She meant it to come out as a chummy reminder, accompanied with a sympathetic twinkling of the eyes. Instead it sounded bald, and harsh, and Mary had looked hurt as she folded her hands in her lap. Cordy caught sight of her eyes in the mirror over the sideboard and found them gray and hard and flat. She didn't wonder—she hadn't 'sparkled' in twenty years—more than twenty years, now.

She never begrudged any of them her long hours of work. She _liked_ work—it purified her, made her feel clean somehow. It gave her a purpose. Sometimes she was choked with such cloying memories that she felt if she did not work she would scream. Still, it was a not unpleasant treat to have a half-hour to walk by herself in the brilliant blue-and-white of the winter's day.

Cordy had finished her new shawl, and while shawls had gone quite out of fashion, hers had eight inches of crocheted fringe, which she considered quite fine. She had had a shawl like this in her youth, and just wearing it made her feel young again. There was _almost_ even a spring of gaiety in her step. In the reed basket tucked under her arm she carried a dozen neatly stamped and addressed Christmas cards to the far-flung friends she still retained from her young womanhood—for Cordy found it easier to be friends with those she didn't see often. She would post them, and pick up the rest of the mail at the office. My, it _was_ nice to have a little while in which to call one's soul one's own!

So Cordy was not well-pleased when the little path that the old Cuthberts had always used to drive the cows to and from the back pasture, rounded a bend and dipped close in to Green Gables—Bertha was waiting at the gate, a letter in her own red-mittened hand. Cordy noticed that they were not the warm, sensible mittens she had knitted for the girl out of good, hardy, homespun, but some frivolous lacy things with flowers and embroidery. She felt irritated at the sight of those mittens. The two regarded each other warily, like strange cats.

"I was just going in town to post a letter," said Bertha, with that defiant little toss of her red hair. Such a Blythe affectation! The Blythes had always been a proud lot. One only had to look at Diana Blythe and her sister to see that. Cordy sighed. Her good mood had been forgotten.

"Come along then," she said peevishly, after a long, considering pause. She couldn't well ignore the girl, and it would look positively ridiculous to walk apart from each other on the road. "I'm headed to the post office, too. You might as well walk with me."

Bertha accepted this backhanded invitation with another toss of her head. The two walked miserably along. Neither wanted the company of the other. Cordy didn't quite know what to think of her laughing, happy niece. Mary and Martha were good, sturdy, and sensible. Doss was a good girl, if a little docile—she lacked backbone, and for some reason, that bothered Cordy more than it would have if she'd had too _much_. But Bertha—Cordelia Wright didn't know what to make of her. The girl was always laughing or singing. Cordy never did either.

And Cordy Wright, though she pretended otherwise, was not well-pleased with the face she saw in the mirror each morning. When had she begun to look so _old_ and cross? There was a little 'v' of irritation permanently creased between her brows and her mouth turned down at the corners. Her shining, raven-black hair had been a dull, iron-gray for years—had gone suddenly gray overnight when she was quite young. And she knew that Bertha thought she had never _tasted_ life, never held it to her breast and danced with it. Just the other day she and Doss had been playing an old-fashioned song and singing along on the piano.

"A love song," Bertha had told her, as though she, Cordy, wouldn't know a love song if it bit her! As if that very song had not been sung a thousand times in her honor, in the far-away days of youth.

Cordy could discern, with a sidelong look from her eyes, the girl thought she was a sour old maid. Cordy didn't _really_ blame her. At times she thought of herself that way, too. But she could always look back on her sweet maidenhood. In her heart, in places, she was still a gay, dancing, black-curled, dimpled thing. Bertha saw none of that, it was apparent. Well, to be completely fair, why would she? Cordy herself might remember the girl she had been, but she kept her locked inside for so long that even those who had known her had forgotten she'd ever existed.

Bertha was hanging her head and dragging her feet. "Hurry up, child," Cordy sighed. "The post office closes at three, but Amy Pye will close early if she can. Lazy, like all the Pyes. Don't lollygag."

Bertha's head snapped up at this rebuke, and her cheeks flamed crimson. Cordy felt a _little_ uncomfortable. She hadn't meant to sound _so_ stern, but only to urge her kindly along. But there it was again! How difficult it was to express what one really felt!

They walked the rest of the way in silence—blessed silence, Cordy thought. She wouldn't know what to say to the girl if she'd wanted to talk. She didn't know how to talk to young people anymore. She breathed a sigh of relief when the post office came into view.

"Oh," said Amy Pye, looking up from her ledger. "You ladies have just made it—I was about to close up for the afternoon."

Bertha and Cordy shared a glance at that, and for a brief moment, a tenuous bond of kinship sprang up between them. It was soon shattered—Miss Pye bent under the counter and retrieved a paper-covered parcel, which she pushed across to Bertha.

"I knew I had something for you," she said, as Bertha signed the ledger. "A package from your beau in Boston, isn't it?"

"It is from my friend Mr. Gray, if that is what you mean," said Bertha with great dignity—Cordy felt a sudden flash of pride in her niece! Oh, thank heavens the girl could stand up to a Pye. Doss would have simpered and trembled so. "But he is _only_ a friend, and nothing more."

"I've heard otherwise," said Amy, looking very sly. "Besides, this is the third package you've had from him in as many months. Some friend, is what I'm saying. Miss Wright, I'll take those letters for you."

Cordy handed over her letters with a curious glance at Bertha, who was studiously looking away. The two made their journey home in utter silence. Cordy occasionally cast slanted looks at Bertha's too placid, innocent face. But Bertha was always staring straight ahead.

"Do you really think it wise to be so friendly with an older boy, whom you have never met?" she asked finally, and beside her, Bertha stiffened.

"I would think it unwise to do anything _but_ be friends with him," she said coldly.

A Blythe answer! Such flippant things they always said, that people could not make heads nor tails of. A smart remark. Cordy was piqued into deeper crossness.

"My goodness, you're a fast piece," she said, rather sarcastically. "If you are going to flirt and dally on with Yankee boys, you might as well call a spade a spade rather than maintaining this ridiculous pretension of 'friendship.'"

"Jordan Gray is my_ friend_," Bertha reiterated furiously—pityingly. "However, I understand that it might be hard for you to understand—you have no friends, none at all, and thus have nothing to compare my friendship to."

Cordy's hand reached out, and, quick as a flash, slapped Bertha across her flushed cheek. Her hand was mittened and so it could not really sting at all, but it startled them both.

Bertha's eyes filled with angry tears. Her mouth opened and closed, and she trembled with fury so that she had to grab the gate to steady herself. Her green eyes bore accusingly at Cordy's bespectacled ones. And then she turned and ran.

Cordy watched her go for a moment, before gathering her skirts and following. She had planned on going straight home—she had supper to get—but now she felt it was her duty to stop in and tell Di Blythe exactly what she thought of her daughter's behavior.

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Di set the tea-pot down with a trembling hand. She often found that the 'flies with honey' approach was the best way to deal with Cordy. And Di was not prone to temper, despite her red hair. But that is not to say she was immune from it. Now, for example, she was positively furious.

"You slapped her?" she asked Cordy in a fierce little voice. "And you dare come to me and expect me to be approving of such methods? Cordelia, you know full well that Jack and I do not condone corporeal punishments for children—not even for the gravest offenses. You had no right to treat Bertha in such a way, and I do hope that you will find it in your heart to apologise to her."

Cordy stared at her brother's wife as if she had grown two heads. "Apologise!" she crowed. "Why, it's Bertha should apologise to _me_! I was only trying to point out to her that I think it's unwise for her to carry on with this Jordan Gray fellow. You know next to nothing about him, Diana. He may be a – a philanderer, for all you know."

"He is of the race that knows Joseph," said Di inscrutably. "And that is all I need to know." Blythe—oh, _how_ Blythe of her!

"And people are beginning to talk something awfully about him and Birdie." Cordelia decided to act as though Di hadn't spoken. How _could_ she respond to such remarks? "I think it's terribly silly of her to carry on so. And terribly foolish for you to let her do it."

"And I think," said Di coldly, rising from the table, "That I have taken quite enough parenting advice from _you_, today, Cordy. Please leave now. And I will expect you to apologise to Bertha. So will Jack, when I tell him what has occurred."

"She is a wicked girl," Cordy began, spluttering. "A terrible gadabout—always flitting to concerts and parties. She's spoiled rotten and if it were up to me…"

"If it were up to you, Bertha would be as sour and unhappy as you are," said Di furiously. She crossed the kitchen and opened the door—held it open, as Cordy rose from her chair. "And if you ever slap my daughter again, Anne Cordelia Wright—I'll slap _you._"

Cordy went home, feeling rather ashamed of herself, and then furious with herself for feeling any shame at all. Wasn't she one of the Orchard Slope Wrights? People joked that Cordy always did things the 'Wright way.' So how could she feel so wrong now? Her blood boiled. But underneath that there was a strange sense of regret, for she knew that her brother's girl hated her—was even now crying furious tears against her—and hating her bitterly under her red hair.

"And with good cause," said Cordy, feeling even more ashamed of what she had done.


	14. The Gift of Understanding

Diana Wright climbed the creaky stairs to the west gable and paused on the landing. A girl's faint sobs could be heard dimly through the thick wood of the door. Di furrowed her brow. Bertha—staunch, hardy Bertha—was not usually given to tears.

Di put her hand on the door and turned the knob. Inside, she found her daughter sprawled facedown on her bed, clutching her pillow and sobbing. Her red hair was tangled over her tear-streaked face, and her left cheek was red from where Cordelia had slapped her. The sight of it made a sudden fury well up in Di's heart, but she quickly quashed it as best she could and seated herself on the bed, taking Bertha's head into her lap, as she had always done when the twins were very small.

"Oh, mother," Bertha sobbed. "I _hate_ Aunt Cordy."

Di was none too fond of Cordy Wright at the moment, but did not say so. "Hate is a very strong word, dearest," she murmured. "Bertha, I'd like to tell you something. But you must promise to keep it a secret from Dossie—and even from Teddy. Do you think you can do that? I know it is a terrible thing to ask—to keep a secret from your twin—as one twin to another. But I think it will help you understand why Aunt Cordy behaved today the way she did."

Bertha, brought out of her tears by her mother's words, had never had a secret from Teddy before. Why, would such a thing even be possible? She wondered briefly if this was how people grew apart—by growing up, and having grown-up things to keep to themselves. She did not know if she _wanted_ to have a secret from Teddy. She did not want there ever to be anything between them!

But the lure of a good story won out in the end. _Something_ in mother's voice hinted at old tragic times. And she _would_ like to understand what made Aunt Cordy behave the way she did. _Why_ was she so bitter? Why did she persist in treating the world as though it were a dangerous, hurtful place?

"I won't tell," Bertha promised, and at that moment she realized it _would_ be possible for her to keep a secret from Teddy.

Di stroked her daughter's long, red tresses silently for a moment or two. When she spoke again, her voice was dreamy, and a little sad.

"You wouldn't think it to look at her now, but Cordelia Wright was once the most beautiful woman in Avonlea."

Bertha's head snapped up at that. "Oh, _mother_," she said reproachfully. The very _idea_ of Aunt Cordy—beautiful? With her iron gray hair and her disapproving mouth, and her ever-present spectacles perched on the end of her nose? The idea was too, too ridiculous to be believed!

"Believe it," Di cautioned, "Because it's true. She looked—why, she looked quite like Dorothy does now. Only Cordelia was far more vibrant than Doss can ever be—will ever be. Don't bristle so, Bertha! _I'm _not running down your dear chum-cousin. It is only that Doss is beautiful like a tall, pale lily in the moonlight. But Cordelia was a rose.

"No one laughed as much as she did—" Here, Bertha started again. Aunt Cordy never laughed. She only made a sharp, harsh sound in the back of her throat—"And sang, too. And danced—every year on her birthday Grandfather Wright threw open the doors of Lone Willow Farm to all the Avonlea young fry, and there was dancing from dusk to dawn, in Cordy's honor. She had the tiniest feet and the tiniest waist, and all the young men sought to be her partner. She had a pair of shoes with golden heels—real gold—from an admirer who had seen her waltz and declared it to be the loveliest sight imaginable."

Here Di paused, to let the picture fully develop in Bertha's mind's eye. _Could_ she see Aunt Cordy that way, Bertha wondered? She didn't think she could. But then her imagination kicked in, and she saw it, just the way that mother had described it.

"Go on," she said. "Please, mother."

"Well," said Di, clasping her hands around her knees in a girlish way. "She had no end in admirers. We all wondered who she would take as a beau. For a while," Here Di cast a sly glance at her daughter, "For a while, we thought that perhaps Jem would win her."

"Uncle Jem!" Bertha was amazed.

"Yes," Di laughed. "She was a good deal older than him but as a youth—before Faith Meredith appeared on the scene—Jem was besotted. He and Cordelia were always writing to each other. I believe they kept it up for a long while, even after…"

"After what?"

But Di did not elaborate. "In the end, it was Timothy Gillis who caught Cordy's eye. He was a Toronto boy by birth, and only came to Avonlea after his grandfather died. Cordy fell in love the first time she saw him in the Avonlea church. I remember, because we were visiting Green Gables at the time. She stopped, caught by the gold of Tim Gillis's hair. He had hair the color of gold coins—the color of ripe wheat. He smiled at her across the aisle and I remember that Cordy smiled back—most shocking, in those days!—and squeezed mine and Nan's hands, and whispered, 'He's the one for me, girls!'

"What happened next?" Bertha wondered. She was getting to be drowsy, lulled by mother's sweet voice. The spot on her face had stopped burning. She nestled into Di's skirts and Di began to stroke her hair again.

"They were inseparable for a while—Tim and Cordy. Rumor has it that he asked her to be his bride at dusk, by the Lake of Shining Waters—and rumor also has it that she accepted, although I suppose we'll never know. I don't ever remember hearing her speak of it—but I do think they were engaged. There was something about her eyes, that winter…. I do remember when they quarreled."

"Oh—what about?"

"I don't exactly remember," Di admitted. "I was a little goose, then, and taken up in my own affairs. I remember that it was just about the time of my first year at Redmond. I was up to my ears studying for exams. The War was on, and I was worried sick that Walter would go away to fight.

"Some people say that they quarreled because Tim had grown a moustache—but I don't think that was it. It was a big, beautiful moustache—any girl would have been proud for her beau to have such a distinguished looking moustache! It is nearly thirty years later, and I still remember how splendid it was!

"Some other people say they quarreled because Cordelia danced with Herbert Pye at a party. I think it is far more likely _that_ was the case. Cordelia didn't like the Pyes better than any of the rest of us, but Herb was a delicious dancer and Cordy could never refuse when she'd been asked to take a turn around the floor. It was a friendly encounter—no one could ever accuse Cordelia of making eyes at a Pye—but Tim Gillis had a jealous streak. He told her that she must never dance with anyone but him, and _she_ laughed at him, and told him that he could go to Halifax, for all she cared. And Tim Gillis did an unforgivable thing—he took her at her word."

"Oh, no," breathed Bertha, who had an inkling as to where this story was going.

"Tim Gillis joined the army the next day and shipped out two weeks after that. And Cordy never saw him again. His mother received a telegram after Gallipoli—Tim was listed as 'wounded and missing.'"

"And was he never found?" Bertha was surprised to find fresh tears in her eyes. She brushed them hastily away. "Was he never found, mother?"

"No," Di sighed. "After a while, everyone gave up hoping—everyone except Cordy. She never gave up hoping that he would come striding up the walk. For years after the war she saved magazine articles with stories about soldiers being found in the mountains—on sea islands—about soldiers who had been stricken with amnesia, but suddenly came to their senses—about soldiers who one day just appeared at home, whole and new and good as before. I don't know if she _really_ believed it was possible—but perhaps she _made_ herself believe, because the truth was too hard to bear: that he was dead, and she had never told him she was sorry.

"And after a while," Di continued softly, "I think she really did start to believe—that Tim was out there. Cordy didn't become an old maid overnight, you know—there were several brave souls who found the gumption to propose to her. But Cordy shot them down. She was already engaged—to Tim Gillis. How could she abandon him? She really did not believe that he could be dead.

"Even now, Bertha—sometimes when she gets very still, and cocks her head, a little shiver goes through me, because I know she is listening for the sound of him coming up the walkway. She wakes up every morning really believing that today might be the day that he comes back to her…and goes to be every night with a heavy feeling in her chest, because he didn't. That is why Cordy hates the world—because every day, it disappoints her."

Bertha rubbed her cheeks with her hand. _Poor _Aunt Cordy! How sorry she was for her! But, she realized, she could never let on to Aunt Cordy that she _knew_—Aunt Cordy would hate pity above all else. Bertha did not know how she knew this, but she did.

_Aunt Cordy is proud_, she thought, lifting her red head and raising her chin firmly. _Proud, just like me_. _But oh—I won't be _too_ proud. I won't be so stubborn that I can't try to look at her and see inside the girl she once was. And I won't fly off the handle so easily, after this. _

"I just don't know," Bertha mused, "Why Aunt Cordy shouldn't like the idea of me writing to Jordan. He's just a chum. Why should she get so angry about it?"

"Because it scares her," Di said. "Cordy loves you, Bertha—she _does_—and she is worried for you. Love scarred her life. She does not want the same to happen for you. And I think it scares her that you are _old_ enough to be in love, in your own right. It reminds her of how much time has passed—without him."

Bertha nodded, looking so serious that Di felt her breath catch in her throat. Cordy was not the only who was frightened by the idea of Bertha in love.

"Darling," she asked suddenly. "_Are_ you in love with Jordan Gray?"

Bertha's face creased in a smile. She sat up and took her mother's white face into her hands.

"Dearest mother," she laughed. "Don't be silly! I love Jordan desperately—but only as a friend. When I'm in love—for real—you'll be the first to know."

Di looked at her daughter and found a dreaminess in her face that had never been there before—a glow in her eyes that betrayed her words. And then she thought that perhaps she _was_ the first to know, after all.


	15. Things Change

It was nowhere near to spring, but Bertha did not care. She had a letter in her coat pocket, waiting to be read, and she must read it somewhere that she could _breathe_. So she snapped on her snowshoes and tramped the long way to Hester Gray's garden. Somehow, she felt that she must be there when she read it—in the place where it all began.

The holidays had been wonderful this year—charged with an energy that they had not felt in a long time. The war would soon be over. They all felt that. With the States in it now, how could it go on for much longer? They laughed and sang and toasted the Allies and the Yankees—Bertha could never remember toasting the Yankees before in her life. But this year:

"God bless President Roosevelt!" cried Mr. Wright, lifting his glass high. "God bless General Eisenhower!"

"To Roosevelt!" they all echoed, "To Eisenhower!"

Only Mrs. Wright remained mum, refusing to cheer with the rest of them. Di Wright had lived through a war before, and she had seen what damage false hope could cause. She kept a little, lighted hope in her heart and prayed that Jack was right—that it _would_ be over soon. But she did not allow herself to join in the toast. She felt as though it would be tempting fate.

But as it turns out, Bertha thought, as she trudged through the snow, mother had been right. Rommel launched his counter-offensive in North Africa in January, and El Agheila, the little port town that had ended the year in Allied hands, was under Axis control again. The Japanese were swarming the south Pacific island nations—the Philippines, the Dutch East Indies, Burma…Bertha did not like to think of the way things were going in the Pacific. _What if Jordan decided to join the Navy…?_

What if Jordan decided to join the army, for that matter? She did not want him to join either. _Or _the air force. She knew that she could not prevent him from doing it if that was what he set his mind to do. Who was she to him, after all, except a long-distance chum, a little childish girl whom he had never met? Bertha thought viciously of the terrible Alice. Alice could keep him from going, she was sure of it. If only Alice _would_ keep him from going!

She pressed her hand against her chest and felt the outline of the letter that was pressed against her heart. She knew without knowing what it would say. Would she cry, when she read it? Did Jordan expect her to cry?

Or did he expect her to toss it aside with little more than a care? She did not know. At times, she felt that he must know her better than anyone on earth. She told him things that she suddenly found she could not tell Teddy. And sometimes she felt that Jordan told her things he could not tell to anyone else, too.

But perhaps she was mistaken.

Would she feel proud of him? she wondered. Would she feel proud of him, her far-away friend, when she read that he was to go and do what he felt he had to do? Bertha paused to consider this. Yes—away down deep in her heart, there it was. She would feel at least a _little_ proud, no matter what.

What if, she thought to herself, he was writing to tell her that he was 4F? It could happen. His ankle had not healed properly and still pained him when it was damp, he had written once. Bertha had heard on the radio about a group of boys who had been found to be 4F who killed themselves, so agonized were they at missing their chance to fight the big fight. She bit her lip, considering. No, she decided. She would not wish that kind of unfitness on Jordan. She would not wish him that pain. And underneath everything, she _knew_ he wasn't 4F. Her chum, her golden chum—he must be A number one, as the Yanks liked to say.

The bitter wind stung her eyes as Bertha reached Hester Gray's garden, and made her tear up. Maybe I _will_ be crying when I read it, she thought, sitting on the icy bench, with her letter in her hands. But Bertha did not cry. She only felt a peculiar emptiness of soul as she opened her letter, and read that Jordan Gray was going off to war.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jordan's next letter was from a strange-sounding place called Camp Toccoa. It was located in the southern United States, in Georgia. Bertha poured over her encyclopedia. She learned that the capital of Georgia was Atlanta, and that the whole place had a humid subtropical climate. The state crop was, apparently, the peanut. None of this helped her better picture the place where Jordan now was.

His letters were more informative than the old _Britannica. _"I'm sorry I haven't written in a while, old pal. Three months! This must be a record for us. I received every one of yours and read it immediately, but simply couldn't find time to put pen to paper. I was determined to finish my exams, in case I make it out of this whole mess alive, and decide I do want to practice law someday. Then I had to travel up and down the Eastern seaboard, from Maine to the Main Line, saying goodbye to all of mother's (copious) relatives. I got home with just enough time to pack my trunk and head down to Toccoa.

"You'll be pleased to know that I've been awarded a commission, and so I am no longer _just_ Mr. Jordan Gray, of Cambridge, Mass and Beacon Hill. I am now writing to you as Second Lieutenant Jordan S. Gray, of 'E' Company, 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 101st Airborne Division, United States Army. Whew! That's a mouthful. When I repeated it to Grand, she simply peered at me, and asked me to translate into plain English for an old woman's sake.

"'It means I'll be jumping out of airplanes," I told her, and then _she_ told _me_ I was crazier than she'd ever thought before, and that was saying something.

"So far, I haven't done any jumping of any kind. _Except_ when Captain Sobell tells me to. Then I say, 'How high?' Scratch that: I say, 'How high, _sir_?'

"Capt. Sobell is an angry man who must have been badly disappointed at some time in his life, because he is continually taking that disappointment out on his company. He is a fearsome presence in my life. I don't dare say any more because he has the habit of 'confiscating' all the recruits' mail whenever the whim strikes him. I don't want extra PT simply because he dislikes my description of his character. So I shall say no more.

"We wake at dawn and run 'Currahee' mountain—three miles up, and three miles down. Sometimes we run at night. Sometimes we run whenever the Capt. has the urge to make us do it. It's a good thing you've never seen me, Bertha, because you would scarcely recognize me, with my hair shorn, my college-boy fat completely gone, and my skin as brown as one of the Cherokee Indians from which Currahee takes its name. It means 'Standing Alone,' but I don't feel alone here. I've never felt part of a group before except on the football field, but I do now. Sometimes I feel as though the company is a well-oiled machine, and I am only a cog in it—but I'm playing my part.

"Besides, I can't be really alone when I have letters from Alice, who writes dutiful, pale, and rather insipid little notes—when she has time. She isn't a model correspondent, but she means well. I think she was rather put off when I did not leave her with any 'understanding' between us. Perhaps her letters will warm in time. Hopefully (now that you know where to find me), I'll have letters from you, and they shall keep me going. I'm ashamed to say that I don't miss home much, but I'm saying it anyway because I know they don't miss me. 'Out of sight, out of mind,' seems to be our family motto—I think it is emblazoned on our coat of arms. I know Grand misses me, though, and I miss her, too. Sometimes I wonder if I shall ever see her again, when this war is over?

"I miss you, too, little friend—is that strange? Sometimes I think that I can't miss you, if we have never met in person. But before—everything in my life, I feel, will now be separated into After and Before—your presence in my life was a golden thread that ran through my drab days. So I do miss you, Bertha, and I hope you'll write soon. I'm in need of a little color now."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Something strange happened that summer. Bertha, prickly with the heat, pulled on her cotton bathing suit and grabbed a towel, and ran across the pasture to Orchard Slope. A dip in the Lake of Shining Waters would be just the thing to refresh her on such a hot day.

She was obvious of a few stares as she ambled down the lane. Folks in Avonlea were still not used to seeing girls in bathing suits, despite their proximity to the shore. Oh, bathing suits were fine for the slick city women who came to White Sands, to dip their toes into the gulf and to squeal at how cold the water was. But for an Avonlea girl to show so much of her legs—! Mrs. Moody MacPherson had even circulated a petition to ban the suits from the village. It never caught on, much to Bertha's delight on that particular summer day. Girls running around in bathing suits were beginning to be a common occurrence.

Except where Doss was concerned. Bertha grinned. Dorothy was beautiful—simply beautiful. There was no other word to describe her. She had no reason at all to eschew showing her figure except for a paralyzing shyness. Doss never called attention to herself—would never dream of it. She was as meek and sleek and shy and demure as a little brown field mouse.

Which was why it was such a surprise to Bertha to see Dossie out on the yard at Orchard Slope, hanging clothes on the line with her skirt kilted up to her knees and singing her little heart out. In church, or at school, Doss always sang in a husky alto that was scarcely more than a whisper.

Today, however, the house was deserted—Bertha reckoned that Aunt Polly must have taken the little ones to town, and Uncle Fred must be out in the fields. Doss was alone and she was _singing_—really singing. Her voice was rich and robust. She was singing the aria from Teddy's _Evangeline_.

As Bertha watched her cousin move about the yard, noting her strong, confident movements, and the way her arms lifted her curls off the back of her neck to catch the breeze the stirred the treetops, she knew that she was invading on a private moment, and began to back away. As she disappeared back into the leafy lane, Dorothy turned, and Bertha caught sight of her face. And realized something.

There was no mistaking the flush on her cheeks, the smile of contentedness that spread across her face. Bertha had never seen it before but she knew instinctually what it was.

Doss was in love. But with whom?


	16. A Sticky Situation

Bertha plunged her hands into the soapy water and stared blankly out the window. With her body she was washing the breakfast dishes, but with her mind she was thinking about the way things were going in Europe—and Africa—and the Pacific. Since the new year, the Germans had launched no fewer than four major offensives against Allied strongholds—Crimea, Gazala, Tobruk and Sevastopol were now held captive under the weird red _swastika_ of the National Socialists. The Pacific theatre had seen the surrender of British troops in Singapore, the Dutch surrender at Java, and the massive destruction of several US warships. There were even rumors of Japanese attacks along the western coast of North America—some, rumored even as far north as British Columbia.

"It's a good thing I haven't joined the Navy, Bertha," wrote Jordan. "It looks like pretty rough sailing for those boys right about now, and despite growing up near the Cape, _I _haven't gotten any sea-legs—and I never learned to swim." Bertha, perusing newspaper articles that recounted the heavy fighting on the high seas, also offered up a thanks to God that Jordan hadn't joined the Navy. But then she threw up her hands in exasperation. He was going to parachute from planes into enemy territory, after all! Wasn't that a sight more dangerous than being aboard a nice, safe boat?

She could no longer tell herself that the war would be over before Jordan's turn came to go. He was still in Georgia, at Toccoa, at the present. And if the war was over any time soon it would be an Axis victory—for the Allies weren't doing so well lately. So, as ridiculous as it may seem, she prayed desperately that the fight would not be ended any time soon.

"It's a sticky situation," said Mr. Wright, "But the Allies have got some fight left in them yet, by George—they _do_."

It _was_ a sticky situation, as Mr. Wright had said—but Bertha was about to find herself in a sticky situation of her own.

She was alone in the house, mother having gone out to an I.O.D.E. function in Bright River. Dad was in town today, recording one of his radio jingles. It was such a catchy one—he had been working on it for days, for a _banana_ company, of all things. Bertha had at her disposal arias from all of the masters, but she could not resist raising her voice and singing,

_I'm Chiquita Banana and I've come to say, _

_Bananas have to ripen in a certain way…_

_Bananas like the climate of the very, very tropical equator, _

_So you should never put bananas in the refrigerator!_

She dissolved into giggles and plunged her hands into the soapsuds again.

The only problem was that they had been presented with a whole cartload of bananas. At first Bertha had delighted in the strange, lush tropical fruit, but after a week of eating bananas at every meal—well, she never cared if she saw one ever again, on this side of the equator or the other! Mother had been baking banana puddings, banana crème pies, and banana bread so that they would not go to waste, but Bertha was heartily tired of bananas in _any_ form. So were mother and dad and Teddy, for that matter. They'd even resorted, in the beginning, to giving bunches and bunches of the horrid yellow things away to the folks at Orchard Slope and Lone Willow Farm. They had been gratefully received, at first. But Bertha had the distinct feeling that the bananas' popularity was waning at other places _besides_ Green Gables. Only Aunt Cordy continued to doggedly eat them, reminding everyone that food could not be wasted—even if it was strange, heathen eatables that probably grew in Jap territory. Aunt Cordy was apparently not overly familiar with the geographic climes of bananas.

The trouble was, there were still two more boxes of the darned things. It was Bertha's turn to scrub the kitchen floor, and she just didn't see how she could with those two big boxes sitting in the middle of the floor.

"What shall I do with them?" she wondered. "I know I can't put them in the refrigerator—not that they'd all fit in there."

She mused on it for a while. She could drag the boxes into the front parlor—it was hardly ever used. But that wouldn't do—mother was having a bandage rolling party in there the next day. Bertha thought with a devilish gleam of hauling the boxes up to Teddy's room for storage—Teddy was almost as sick of bananas as Bertha was! But that would mean toting two heavy boxes all the way across the house and up a flight of stairs, so she ultimately decided against it.

Then inspiration hit. She could put them in the attic. The Green Gables kitchen was an old-fashioned one, with a trapdoor in the ceiling and an above the stairs pantry that had once allowed for the storing of smoked hams, dried vegetables, and seeds for spring. It had not been used in some time, but Bertha thought it was the perfect place to store crates and crates of the detested, equatorial fruit. She marched out to the barn and brought back a ladder. Then she set about the business of transferring all the bananas from the kitchen to above the stairs.

She was making her last trip up the ladder when it began to sway alarmingly. Bertha scrabbled with her hands on the floorboards of the attic and kicked her feet furiously. The ladder crashed to the floor and for a moment she was hanging suspended above the kitchen, the hard wood floor seemingly a thousand miles away.

Then adrenaline kicked in and she seemed blessed with an extra strength, like Superman, in the comic books that Teddy was always pouring over. She pulled herself up by her arms and clambered to safety, heaving a sigh of relief as she collapsed on the dusty floor of the attic.

The only problem was—now what?

She couldn't get down. She was trapped up above the kitchen, with only dozens and dozens of bananas for company!

Mother's meeting would last late into the evening, and she had even made noises about staying over with Mrs. Woodrow MacPherson—_nee_ Pauline Reese—who was visiting from Charlottetown and staying at the White Sands hotel. What if mother didn't come back? Dad was not due home for two days, at least.

And where was Teddy? Bertha felt a flash of annoyance at her twin. Why was he never around anymore when she needed him? He had disappeared that morning with his violin and she doubted if she would see him again very soon. He liked to go and play down by the shore, in the little rock cove, with the sea as accompaniment. If he got hungry he would just go up to Orchard Slope.

Orchard Slope! With that thought came salvation. Dossie—darling Doss—had mentioned tonight that she would be coming over today to borrow Bertha's dress pattern. _Dear_ Doss! Bertha crawled to the window—she could not stand in the space between the low eaves—and looked eagerly out. When she saw Dorothy coming up the lane she would stick her head out and wave her over. Doss would be able to help her.

But Dorothy did not come. The sun swung westward across the sky, and Dorothy did not appear in the lane.

My, it was dusty up here. Bertha sneezed. And was it _ever_ hot! The sun beat down on the little attic compartment, and the sickly-sweet smell of bananas filled the air. She supposed it was true that bananas liked the heat of the very, very tropical equator, because they were nearly bursting with it now. Her traitorous stomach rumbled. It seemed a very long time since breakfast.

"I will not touch a one of you," she muttered darkly to the bananas. "I'd rather eat my own shoe first."

The bananas did not seem to mind. They only gleamed mocking in the late afternoon light.

Bertha stuck her head over the edge of the trapdoor and considered how far it must be to the kitchen floor below. Perhaps she could jump it? But she had a deadly fear of heights, and was cautious about jumping off of things. A few summers ago she had leapt from the low hayloft in the barn and broken her ankle, and that was miles and miles closer to the ground than this attic! The Green Gables kitchen had been built separately and had higher ceilings than the rest of the house.

She picked up a banana and held it over the ledge. She dropped it, testing the distance. _Splat!_ went the banana on the hardwood floor.

No, she had better not risk it.

The dark came creeping down from the white chalk bluffs by the shore. Bertha decided that she had better take drastic action if she did not want to sleep here, her head pillowed on a bunch of the hateful bananas. She threw open the window and leaned her head out.

"Help!" she cried. "Someone help me!"

But nobody came.

She began to fumble around the attic, looking for something that she could use for a ladder, to climb down. She did not find anything useful. Only a few bits of rusted machinery and a mouldy box of hayseed in one corner, long ago put there and then forgotten by Matthew Cuthbert.

Bertha slumped against the wall. It was not completely dark in the attic—save for the bananas. _They_ seemed to shine in the dark. Hateful things! It was the bananas' fault she was up here in the first place.

She had just about given up all hope when she heard the door to the kitchen twist open, and a familiar voice call out, "Bertha?" Rescue! She was about to be rescued!

But then she realized that there was only one person who called her name like that, drawing out the last syllable questioningly. She groaned and buried her face in her hands.

"Berth_aaaa_?" called Aunt Cordy. "Berth_aaaa_?"

For a moment Bertha sat stock still, hardly daring to breathe. She and Aunt Cordy had barely been on speaking terms since their choice encounter last winter. They were both polite and cordial to each other—but never friendly. There was a frostiness between them, despite Bertha's best efforts to try and remember that Aunt Cordy was a sad, disappointed woman who was deserving of some sympathy.

She would almost rather stay up here all night than have to deal with Cordy.

But her stomach rumbled ominously and her desire to get down from that cramped, banana-filled place, finally won out.

"Here I am!" she cried, with forced brightness in her voice. She poked her head over the ledge and came face to face with her aunt's stunned visage.

Aunt Cordy gasped and nearly dropped her lamp.

"You nearly gave me a heart attack," she cried, looking furious. "What are you doing up there, you wicked, wicked child?"

Bertha only sighed and pointed to the ladder, which was lying on the floor. Cordy picked it up and stood it up again—and held it as Bertha climbed down. Bertha stretched her arms and rubbed her shoulders gratefully. Then she turned to her aunt.

"Thank you," she said politely. "I had a—a mishap—earlier. It was nice of you to come along and help me."

Cordy nodded.

Bertha felt uncomfortable, but she reminded herself that she was half-Blythe and half-Wright—and the Wright thing to do would be to offer Aunt Cordy some refreshments in return for her ministrations.

"Would you like some tea?" she wondered, moving about the kitchen to set the kettle on the stove.

"I suppose," said Cordy loftily.

Bertha laid out two cups and two saucers, and then cut a thick slice of banana bread and laid it on the platter. She couldn't let the terrible stuff go to waste, and besides, Aunt Cordy was the only one who liked it. She brought the tray to the table, and poured the tea. She picked up her share of the banana bread and was about to bring it to her lips.

But the smell made her gag with the memory being trapped all the day with a load of smelly bananas. Darn those bananas! Darn Chiquita Banana and her bossing everyone on how to treat them! She wouldn't care if all the bananas in the world were at the bottom of the Great Atlantic Divide. Her hand moved of its own accord and she flung the hated piece of bread across the room, where it smashed against the wall and crumbled on the floor.

Aunt Cordy was looking at her in shock—utter shock, and Bertha suddenly hung her head. She knew what would come next. _A girl of nearly seventeen, throwing food! Why, I never in my life! Can you not think of the poor heathen children who are starving? When we are supposed to be rationing, Bertha!_

But to her surprise, Cordy laughed. It was a real laugh, with real humor in it. Not the harsh, dry, barking noise that Aunt Cordy usually made. Bertha's mouth fell open as her aunt picked up her own slice of banana bread, and threw it, too. It fell to the floor and mingled with Bertha's.

"I _hate _bananas!" Cordy explained, with a shrug of her shoulders, and Bertha whooped with amusement and shared feeling.

"I hate them, too!" She sprang to her feet and tore another piece of bread and flung it to the ground. Cordy raced after her and followed suit.

"No more bananas, ever!" they cried together, stomping on the crumbs. Bertha found a couple of bananas ripening on the windowsill, and she handed a one to Cordy and kept the other. Together, they threw them. _Splat_! went Bertha's banana on the kitchen wall. Cordy's bumped off the stove and skidded along the floor.

They stomped and stomped and threw more bananas and finally collapsed in a giggling heap. Aunt Cordy even had to remove her spectacles to wipe the tears of mirth from her eyes. When they had disposed of all the bananas they could get their hands on, they put their arms around each other, and howled,

_Yes! We have no bananas!_

_We have no bananas, today… _

What a delicious sort of madness had come over them. Bertha held her sides and wondered if she was having hysterics.

Finally, they had laughed themselves out, and Cordy stood, shakily. "We should clean this up before your mother gets home."

"Aunt Cordy," Bertha asked, "If you were trapped on a desert island and dying of hunger—would you eat a banana?"

"No," said Cordy firmly. "I'd eat a coconut."

They swept up their mess. Bertha poured more tea and Cordy cut slices of the warm apple pie that she'd brought over—thank heavens, _apple_ pie! Cordy had put her hair back into its usual hard little knot and appeared to be returning to her old self—except that a faint tinge of color still flushed her cheeks pink.

"This will be a wonderful story to write to Jordan," said Bertha shyly.

"'Dear Jordan Gray,'" recited Aunt Cordy primly. "'Today I was held hostage by a bunch of bananas.'"

"'Until my half-mad aunt swooped down like General MacArthur and rescued me,'" continued Bertha.

They were still laughing when Teddy came home, his violin tucked under his arm. "I'm awful hungry," he said reproachfully seeing that there was no supper on the table. "I suppose I'll have to eat the rest of that darn banana bread."

They began to laugh again, and Teddy asked, "What? What'd I say?"

"Never mind," said Aunt Cordy, readjusting her spectacles. Her eyes twinkled with mirth in a most un-Cordylike way. "Sit down, child—and have some pie."

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Author's Note: The Chiquita Banana song wasn't actually written by Jack Wright in 1942—it was really written in 1944 by a BBDO advertising team in Los Angeles. Garth Montgomery wrote the lyrics and co-worker Len MacKenzie provided the music. I hope they won't mind me borrowing their song for the sake of my story!

Bananas were an exotic fruit and the American public didn't know how to eat them, so this jingle was written to help the public learn how to ripen and use bananas. You can go to http // chiquita. com/ discover/ media/ origjingle.wav (remove the spaces) to hear the original jingle.


	17. Bad Things to Such Good People

Dorothy and Bertha walked home from the Avonlea High School through the Haunted Wood, which was beautiful this time of year. The autumn leaves formed a splendid canopy overhead, and Bertha thrilled at the blaze of gorgeous color that was all around her. Autumn was the only season where she felt she really fitted in: in winter, her red hair was like a flag against the barren landscape, in spring she clashed with the filmy pink loveliness, and in summer the gleam of sun on her crimson strands was almost _too_ much. But in autumn she blended right in with the splendor of the foliage.

She loved the autumn colors best—deep reds and oranges and smoky purples and rich, dark browns. She had a new coat of a nubbly toffee colored wool and she thought it suited her better than anything she had ever owned.

Bertha had never before given much of a thought to what she was wearing. But things seemed to have changed overnight. One moment she was contented to wear the faded cotton summer playsuits that mother had mail-ordered from Eaton's the previous year. The next she was pouring over Myrna Gillis's dog-eared copies of _McCall's_ and _Harper's Bazaar_. She was suddenly conscious that her hair really ought to be cut and styled and that she _needed_ a hot roller set. But father refused to let her have one! She had never needed one before and she had gotten by satisfactorily, Mr. Wright explained, but Bertha was positively glum as she fingered her long, wavy, out-of-fashion locks.

The brown coat was a _coup. _Mother had thought her green plaid would do for another year. It was Aunt Cordy who had presented Bertha with the new brown wool as a seventeenth-birthday present. Aunt Cordy and Bertha were on much better terms these days. Bertha often found herself running over to Orchard Slope to help Aunt Cordy with her Red Cross sewing, and one or the other of them only had to hum the first few lines of _Chiquita Banana_ for the both of them to dissolve into peals of laughter.

So Bertha's spirits were high as she walked along, with her books tucked under her arm. She had the peculiar satisfaction of being well-dressed. And her brown coat, she thought, was _much_ nicer than Dorothy's blue pea-coat. But then she felt guilty for thinking such a disloyal thought and reached over and gave Doss's hand a squeeze. Dorothy's blue suited her. Her eyes looked like violets when she wore it.

"And Doss looks good in _everything_," she reminded herself. "I look fine most of the time—but I've really got to _try_ to look as pretty as she does on her worst day."

Speaking of which—Doss did not look her best today. Her eyes had dark circles under them and her face was drawn. Bertha looked anxiously at her cousin.

"What's the matter, Dossie?"

"My head aches so," said Doss, a little peevishly—Doss, who wouldn't have complained if she'd been bleeding to death or burning with fever. Bertha's frown deepened. "It took me all night to read that stupid story for literature class. And then I had to do my figures for algebra—and they all came out wrong. All the little _x_es and _y_s kept reversing themselves in my head and I couldn't keep them straight."

Bertha patted her arm in sympathy, but she didn't really understand. She, too, had been up all night reading for lit class—but she had been so engrossed in Dickens' _Great Expectations_ that she had read ahead to find out what happened to Estella and Pip. Bertha knew that math was hard for Dorothy, but she could not understand that, either—Dorothy had been held back in remedial algebra, but Bertha was already well into calculus, and the school year had hardly started! She felt as though she had been neglecting Dorothy's travails, and a wave of guilt washed over her.

"I'll help you, Doss," she promised. "I'll read the next chapter out loud to you—and as far as your figures go, I can try and help with those. I loved algebra—it was like solving a puzzle. Besides, we've only one year more of high school—and then we'll be in college. Look on the bright side."

But Doss jerked away. "I'm not going to college," she muttered, kicking a heap of fallen leaves.

"Oh, but Dossie, you _must_!" Bertha cried, frantic. Doss simply had to go to Redmond with her next fall. Teddy was already talking about enrolling in the engineering program at McGill, Redmond's, apparently, not being up to par. What would she do if neither Doss _nor_ Teddy were with her in Kingsport? Tears welled up in her eyes.

"I'll always help you with your studies if you need it," she choked. "Oh, Doss, please! You _have_ to go to college with me. Don't you want to?"

"It's not that I _don't_ want to," said Doss fiercely. "I'd love to go to college. Grandmother and grandfather would be so proud. No one in our side of the family has ever been to college before—father didn't go, or mother either, and Georgie joined up before he could. It's just that dad says money is tight nowadays—and he doesn't want to waste it on sending me, when I'm such a dunce. I think they'll just wait until Mary is old enough to go, and send her. Mary hasn't any problems with algebra—or literature, either."

Bertha was taken aback. Could it really be true that Uncle Fred and Aunt Polly did not want Dorothy to go to college? At Green Gables, college was not a luxury—it was a necessity. Bertha had never considered whether or not she wanted to go to college—she _was_ going. It had always been expected that she and Teddy would both go. She _did_ want to go, she found now—though it would pain her to go without beloved Doss. But on that point Bertha was not ready to give up—not yet.

"Doss, I _know_ I can help you bring your grades up. And I _know_ Uncle Fred will give in if we both convince him. Besides—what will you do if you _don't_ go to college?"

"I don't know—stay here and rot, I suppose," said Dossie darkly.

Bertha did not know what to say to that. She merely patted her cousin's arm.

"We don't have to think about it now," she said, trying to think positively. "We have a whole year before we have to think about it at all. A lot can change in a year."

"I suppose you're right." Doss was glum.

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10 October 1942

_Camp Toccoa, Georgia_

"'Cherished and esteemed Friend'

"That's how the etiquette book I remember from my youth said to address your pals by letter. Doesn't it sound _fancier_ than just plain, "Dearest Birdie?" It's funny the things you remember through the years. I still remember how the etiquette book laid out how to inquire about the health of a lady of your parents' acquaintance, how to pen a thank you note to a dowager aunt…but I've forgotten how I should respond to a 'Dear John' letter from your best girl back home when you are off preparing to fight the wars of your country.

"Perhaps the etiquette book never covered that.

"Bertha, I've had the most pathetic, tear-stained letter from Alice Shelby today. She very tearfully (I can tell by the splotches on the page) begged me to forgive her the odious crime of falling in love with George Covington, erstwhile friend and classmate of mine. Alice once denounced George very heartily for the bad luck of his being 4F, swearing up and down that she could never love a man who was so unfortunate as to be color-blind, and thus miss out on fulfilling his patriotic duty! But there is another saying, that is more tried and true: out of sight, out of mind. I've been out of her sight, I suppose, down here in the wilds of Georgia—and the rest follows, I suppose.

"I must tell you that I am not _completely_ heartsick at Alice's defection. For a while I have been thinking that it would be easier to go and do what I am going to have to do with no ties holding me down, holding me back. And there is an odd thing about war—it distills every thing in life down to its most basic elements. War strips away all of the nice pleasantries that we cocoon ourselves in in times of peace. Only true feeling remains. Only true love can survive the ravages of war. And what I had with Alice—well, it was not true love. She was a very silly girl and most of me is glad to be rid of her.

"There is a small part of me that wonders if _that_ isn't sour grapes. No, Bertha—I don't _think_ it is. True, there were times when I thought Alice's eyes the last word in eyes, when I held her in my arms and breathed the contented sigh of a Man Who Asks No More Out of Life. But now I _do_ ask more from life. More than dances, and Alice's giggles. I wrote Alice a nice little note, so warm and forgiving that I really feel the authors of the aforementioned etiquette tome would be proud of me. I hope poor George is contented with his lot. My legs are sore from jump training, and my arms ache from today's PT, and there is a mosquito droning somewhere around my ear—shrill fellow.

"But do you know, Bertha, that deep down underneath I feel light and happy and _free_?"

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Bertha went a little unwillingly to her music lessons that fall. She slogged through Madama Butterfly's _Un bel di, vedremo_, but her heart was not in it. Her thoughts wended elsewhere. Sometimes while she was singing she her mind wandered to North Africa, where the U.S. troops were about to stage a massive invasion—to Stalingrad, where a crucial battle was even now being waged—to Georgia, where a friend practiced military maneuvers and prepared to go to war. Her voice was oftentimes reluctant—how she would much rather be at home than here, in Master Giacomo's poky old parlor. She would much rather have been writing letters to cousin Cecilia, who had joined the Princess Royal's Volunteer Corps in England—to Gilbert and Walter and Blythe and Owen, who were overseas—to Jordan.

She envied Teddy, who was out in the crisp weather, instead of holed up inside. Teddy had joined the rugby team and came home each evening muddy and satisfied. She envied Doss, who stayed behind at school every day painting banners for the Homecoming committee. For the first time in her life she cursed her talent—if she had a thin, high little soprano like Dorothy, or a rattly, husky alto like Martha, no one would _expect_ her to sing, and she would be free to go to the drugstore for sodas when classes were over for the day, instead of dragging herself all the way across town to Master Giacomo's, and being shouted at when she was anything less than perfect.

On Halloween night, a group of Avonlea boys set fire to Master Giacomo's house. The culprits were never found but general consensus agreed that it must have been those wicked little Pyes who had done it. Public sentiment, which had been banded against the little Italian now surged on his side. There had never been such terrible doings in Avonlea, everyone shook their heads and said. And now this! Such a horrible thing, and done in the name of patriotism? Not so—not so!

"Those mean, murderous monsters!" Aunt Cordy blazed—Aunt Cordy, who had never been overly fond of Master Giacomo. But everyone in Avonlea matched her sentiment.

Bertha went white when she heard how the fire had started with a pile of oily rags flung onto the unkempt, wood-shingled roof. How Master Giacomo had luckily not been at home—but how he had rushed into the burning building upon seeing it in flames, to try and save his beautiful old piano and his piles of rare, valuable sheet music. She had been choked at the sight of the smoldering pile of ashes that now represented all that he had lost in the world.

"You'll come home with us," Mrs. Wright told the old man kindly. "And you'll stay as long as you need to."

Master Giacomo nodded. His grizzled black hair was singed and his face still showed signs of soot. He patted Mrs. Wright's hand in a silent gesture of thanks, and tears filled Bertha's eyes. How could anyone have wanted to hurt this gentle man—perhaps to even kill him?

Master Giacomo could do no more than croak little soothing sentiments to her as she cried, clinging to his hand, for his voice—his lovely, beautiful voice—had been ruined by the smoke. Master Giacomo would never sing again.

"Ah, it is not a tragedy," he rasped, waving a careless hand, but his eyes betrayed him. The sense of loss in them was so strong. He gripped Bertha's hands. "You must sing now for the both of us, _testa rossa_. You must sing for me, since I cannot."

"I will," Bertha promised. "At our next lesson, I'll know Madama Buttefly by heart. I promise that."

But she was not to have another lesson with her maestro. The outpouring of support from the town was too little, too late. Master Giacomo left Avonlea early one Sunday morning, while the Wrights were away at church. They came home to find the house empty, the breakfast dishes washed, and a pile of neatly folded bank notes to cover the cost of his lodging. There was no note, no sign of where the old man had gone.

Bertha thought that he must have gone to the States, to New York or Boston, where there were more people like him, where he would not feel so singled out, the lone foreigner in a small town. Her tears filled with eyes even as she wished him well. She closed her eyes and prayed that he would find the kind of peace that he had not found here, and she mourned the loss of her friend.

It was the first time, even with the war, that loss had touched her young life and her heart ached with the pain of it. She went to the smoldering pile of ashes that had been his little house and scuffed her boot along the charred beams, remembering all the good times that they had had within those broken walls.

It was dusk when she turned away and started toward home. At the top of the lane she turned and looked back. She could not see the ruined house through the trees. She could almost pretend that it was still standing, that the windows were lighted, that Master Giacomo was within, sitting by his fire, with a record playing softly on his old Victrola…

No—she couldn't. Something bright and vivid was gone out of her life and a gray shadowy feeling had come to replace it. A wind came up and rustled the leaves, parting them, revealing the empty place where Master Giacomo's house had stood. Bertha put her hand on her chest, as if to quell the sudden, empty feeling in her heart.


	18. Oh, Jordan

"Oh, Jordan.

"'The goose is getting fat' but it doesn't _feel_ like Christmas this year. How can it, with such dreadful news as we've just had? Mother goes around sniffling and even Teddy's eyes are red. Dad doesn't play the piano in the evenings anymore. We are all so heart-stricked that we don't dare be merry. How can we, when cousin Owen Ford is dead?

"We had the news last night, phoned up from Glen St. Mary. Aunt Rilla was beside herself, and so it was uncle Kenneth who made the call. I was unlucky enough to be at home when it came through and I bounced up to answer, thinking it would be Doss, calling me to come over and help her wrap presents. I chirruped a greeting, and in the pause before uncle Kenneth spoke, I could just _tell_ it was bad news coming down the line. My heart sank to the bottom of my saddle oxfords.

'It's Owen,' uncle Ken said, and Jordan, I feel miserably guilty at writing this, but when I heard his voice I thought, oh,_ why_ did I answer this darn phone at all? I could still be sitting at the table, full of blissful ignorance if I hadn't. I should have let it ring and ring—should have let mother or dad or Teddy get it. Let someone else hear the bad news not me. But then I grimly squared my shoulders, so you don't have to be completely ashamed of me.

"Uncle Ken explained with a catch in his voice that Owen had been killed in a dogfight somewhere above the English Channel. I didn't know what to say, I just began to cry. Truthfully, Owen and I have never been close. We are near to each other in age, but he lives—_lived_—so far away. I worry every night over Georgie and more occasionally about Blythe. His mother is my mother's twin, and so we always spent much more time together than with Auntie Rilla's children. I suppose I never gave a thought really that anything _could_ happen to poor Owen. Perhaps that is why I began to cry so hard. Owen and I will never have a chance to be close now.

"Mother appeared at my elbow and took the phone from my hand. Through my tears I had the glimmer of a feeling of hope that perhaps I had heard the news wrong. My head was just whirling and whirling—it really seemed quite plausible. But then mother said _Oh, Ken_, and her voice was so full of sadness that I knew it was true.

"Teddy is taking it the hardest of all of us. He and Owen were inseparable as kiddies. I look across the table at his face and on it shows the most tremendous sense of loss. My twinly heart aches for him, and I don't know what to do.

"We are all going up to the Glen for Christmas. Mother is beside herself with worry for Aunt Rilla, and she wants to be near Aunt Nan. Do you know how they say that bad things come in threes? Poor Blythe was wounded only a day or two after we had word of Owen. He is quite safe now and is coming home. But they do not know if he will ever walk again!

"So that is two bad things. I cannot help wondering—what will be the third? And when?

"Oh, Jordan. I hope your Christmas will be merrier than mine."

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Christmas was a subdued affair. For the first time in her life, Bertha did not concern herself with the contents of her Christmas stocking. She supposed she was growing up—but at what price came experience? She would not live through another week like the one that had just passed. Aunt Rilla waved away the doctor's offer of a sedative and was so determinedly stoic that it hurt to look at her. Trudy and Hannah, Owen's sisters, managed smiles but those smiles did not reach their eyes. Grandmother Blythe had a crease of worry on her brow, and that was something Bertha had _never_ seen before.

_I can't wait to go home to Avonlea_. Bertha penned those words in the snowy privacy of Rainbow Valley. She stared at the stark words. Then she tore the paper up. It felt disloyal to write of it—even to Jordan.

New Year's Eve was spent by the Ingleside hearth. The logs shifted, sending forth a scatter of sparks, and Dr. Blythe could not help a wry smile as he quoted,

"'Man is born for trouble, as sparks fly upward.' I think of that verse more and more often these days."

"So do I," said Grandmother Blythe softly. "But I haven't forgotten the rest of it."

"'But as for me, I would seek God,'" murmured Bertha, who knew her Scripture well. "'And I would place my cause before God; who does great and unsearchable things, wonders without number.'"

""In famine He will redeem you from death.'" Grandmother Blythe's gray-green eyes smiled into Bertha's matching pair. "'And in war from the power of the sword.' He _will_ deliver us from this evil, Gilbert—and that you may tie to, as Susan Baker would say, if she were here."

The clock chimed that it was fifteen to the hour—the holy midnight hour that would mark the changing of the years. Bertha left the little group to their fireside vigil, stealing away so soundlessly that only Anne Blythe noticed her go out into the hall, slip into her coat and muffler, and out the door, toward the silent, shadowy valley. Her face was lighted for a moment by the beam of lamplight in the hall-way and for a moment Anne felt as though she were staring back through the years at the girl she had once been. A head and a heart full of dreams, which showed in her eyes. Bertha was no longer a little girl.

"This war has robbed her of her girlhood," thought Anne. "She has become a woman before her time. But she will be a good, sweet woman. I wonder what moonlight she will carry with her to her dreams tonight! What romantic, midnight tryst does she make haste to meet?"

_Where will you be at the dawn of the new year? _questioned Jordan Gray's letter, which even now was tucked into Bertha's pocket. _Wherever you are, Birdie—can you find a moment to steal away? Go out at midnight and look up at the north star—the brightest light in the sky—and know that a thousand miles away, I will be doing the same, and thinking of you_.

Where was Polaris, the bright beacon of the sky-seas? The night was speckled with clouds—thin, mackerel clouds—and for a moment Bertha's breath caught in her throat at the thought that maybe she would not be able to see it. This was a tryst that she longed to keep—such a curious sensation, that longing. Oh, where was the north star? Suppose she could not keep up her end of the bargain? Bertha felt completely sure that Jordan would know somehow if she did not.

But the clouds parted, as if touched by a ghostly hand. There was the moon—such an alluring silver crescent in the sky. The stars looked like scattered diamonds on rich, black velvet—and there in the middle was the north star, the jewel in the crown of the night.

Bertha sought it with her eyes, and stared until it shimmered. Suddenly the night's quiet seemed full of peace, and there was a soft, delicate touch upon her soul that brought gooseflesh to her arms. The wind ruffled her hair. The valley was dark and deserted—but Bertha was not alone.

All of her cares melted away. There was no longer a war in the world. Ingleside faded into another realm. There was nothing else in the world besides two young people. The world itself was a young thing, dancing on the brink of maidenhood. Wherever Jordan was, Bertha was sure he was keeping his promise. He was thinking of her, too—she could feel it.

The clouds dispersed, the stars shined brighter than ever. The wind melted back into the treetops and the night was quiet and still. Thousands of miles apart, two friends stood together and watched as the year of nineteen forty-three was born, a rare, new thing, rife with possibility.


	19. In the Blink of an Eye

One moment Doss was there—the next she wasn't. It was as simple as that.

It would always shock Bertha, when she thought of it in later years. The way that things could happen so quickly, the way that everything could change in a moment. The way that things could change forever, with no sign, or portent.

She did not awake that night with a feeling of dread. No—Bertha awoke to find Teddy standing in her doorway. The curtains were parted and the soft white light of the moon spilled into the room. Teddy grinned—he had his skates in his hand.

"Let's go on a moon spree," he said.

Bertha dressed quietly and together the twins crept out of the house. The air was crisp and the late remnants of the last snow crunched underfoot. It was a still, winter night—but spring was not too far off.

"This could be our last skate of the season," Bertha murmured as they tramped along through the Haunted Wood. Her breath came in little puffs and she clapped her hands together to keep warm.

Through the wood they went. Bits of moonlight filtered through the leafless branches. It was quiet and still but the air was full of possibilities, and Bertha felt as though she were entering into an enchanted land. _I must remember to write this to Jordan_.

Over the hill and Orchard Slope loomed dark and sleeping before them. "Oh, Teddy!" whispered Bertha, "Let's wake up Dossie. She'd want to come along with us."

Teddy grinned and scooped up a handful of pebbles, which he scattered expertly against Dorothy's window. He put his fingers in his mouth and gave a long whistle, and then two short ones—his and Doss's special signal to one another.

In a moment a shock of tumbling black curls appeared at the window. Dorothy gestured at them and then disappeared—in less than a moment she had appeared at the front door, closing it carefully behind her. Her own skates were knotted together by the laces and thrown over her shoulder.

Together, the three cousins made their way through the old orchard. To think that this barren, frozen place in just a few months would be a bower of blossom! Bertha rubbed her hands together again. This winter had been long and cold. She looked forward to spring with all her heart.

Somehow, Doss's hand had found its way into Bertha's. Teddy held her other. They smiled at each other with wordless comradeship. All at once, Bertha felt that she would always remember this night. This time next year she would be in Redmond, and Teddy would be at McGill. Their merry little band would be separated all too soon. But tonight—tonight they were together.

Bertha stopped at the edge of the Lake of Shining Waters and watched anxiously as Teddy tested the ice. He walked out a few feet and the frozen lake emitted an eerie groan. Bertha laughed nervously.

"Perhaps we should go back," she fretted. "You know Mother doesn't like us to skate so late in the year. The ice may not be thick enough to hold us."

Doss turned with a rare, luminous smile, that lit her face from within. Doss, the timid, Doss, the hesitant, laughed away her cousin's worried frown.

"Don't be such a worrywart," she chided, lacing up her skates, with uncharacteristic aplomb. "It's a beautiful night, and the ice is thick enough. We'll be quite safe if we stay near to the shore, and avoid the black places. Besides…who knows when we shall have the chance to be together—like this—again."

So Dorothy had felt it, too, the sense of impending change. Bertha knelt to lace up her own skates and glided out onto the lake to join the others.

How they whirled and swooped along the ice! Bertha's hair flew out behind her. She was a competent skater, and could do loops and twirls and jumps, but Doss and Teddy left her far behind. They performed a strange, dreamy waltz while Bertha turned and turned like a dervish. She had a sense that together they were all performing some sort of strange, silent, pagan ritual. _I must remember to write that to Jordan…_

The trees approved. They rattled their branches together in a gesture of applause. Bertha lost herself in the night. It was Teddy who called her back into himself.

"Birdie!" he cautioned. "You are too close to the black ice—come back—come back!"

Bertha looked around her at the frozen sheet and saw the thin places, where the water could be heard lapping at the ice from underneath. She took a few tentative strides toward the shore. The ice groaned as it shifted under her weight.

"Don't be frightened, Birdie," called Doss, and began to skate toward her. And then, suddenly, the lovely dream became a night-mare.

There was a sharp crack and Doss slipped down—the ice gave way under her feet and she disappeared into the dark, icy water. It all happened so fast. One moment, Doss was there. She was laughing, her black curls were flying. One moment she was there.

The next she was not.

"Dorothy!" Bertha's voice sounded high and thin on the wind. She dropped to her knees and half-fell, half-slid, to the place where Doss had been.

Her hands plunged into the icy water. She felt something soft and her fingers tangled in Dorothy's hair. Her head broke through the water, and for a moment the white-faced girls were face to face, gasping air in great gulps. Bertha dug her skates into the ice and tried to get a tighter hold.

And then Dorothy slipped away again.

"Bertha! Bertha!" from the shore she heard Teddy crying her name. There was another ominous crack and the ice underneath Bertha began to give way.

She was sobbing, plunging her hands into the water again and again. Doss was under there, darling Doss, trapped beneath the black, pitiless ice. She could not leave her, trapped. She must find her, find her!

But her hands touched the icy water only. Bertha began to scream.

She did not know how long she lay there, on the splintering ice, her hands frantically sifting the water, grasping, reaching, searching for Dorothy. Suddenly she felt a rough hand on her arm, and she was pushed away.

"Get back," shouted Uncle Fred. Teddy crawled over and wound his arm around Bertha's shoulders. Together the twins huddled on the frozen shore, each's tears falling on the other's cheeks.

"Dossie—Dossie? Doss?" Bertha heard her own voice, frightened and questioning, above the din.

"Get the rope, Jack!" called Uncle Fred, and Bertha saw her father rush forward toward the deadly black ice. She hid her face against Teddy's shoulder. _Oh, won't mother and father be angry at us? Yes—tomorrow—they'll sit me and Teddy and Dossie—Dossie—they'll sit us all down and they'll give us a stern talking to—tomorrow—when this nightmare is over. Why can't I wake up? Why can't I wake up?_

It seemed forever before Uncle Fred gave a shout. Bertha peered through her lashes and saw that he held Doss in his arms. The black water sluiced from her hair. Her head was thrown back, her eyes wide and staring. Her lips were blue.

She tried to run then, back out onto the ice, but Teddy caught her. "Stay back, Birdie," he cried tearfully. "I don't want you to—too."

"But Doss is fine!" Bertha sobbed. "She is fine, she is all right. They've found her. She will be fine—she just needs to go right to bed, with a warm brick at her feet. She'll be right as rain tomorrow—you'll see, you'll see."

Teddy said nothing, but tightened his arms around her.

Bertha watched, with the sense of a woman in a dream, as her father pounded Dorothy's chest, and lowered his mouth to hers to blow air into her lungs. He did that for a long while. Aunt Polly came streaming down from the house in her wrapper, Mary and Martha following behind. Their eyes were wide and frightened.

"My baby! Where is my baby?" Aunt Polly cried. But still Bertha's father did not stop his ministrations.

Finally Uncle Fred reached down and touched Jack Wright on his shoulder. "The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away," he said in a voice that was choked with tears. "Blessed be the name of the Lord."

"No!" Bertha's voice was a wail. "Oh, Dossie! Dossie! Please wake up!"

Aunt Polly began to scream, a high, chilling sound. Jack Wright passed his hand over his eyes. Uncle Fred gathered the limp body of his girl to his chest and cradled her gently, as though she were a baby. Mary and Martha clung to each other, afraid and unsure. Through her own sobs, she heard Teddy's, against her ear.

How had a night of such beauty ended like this? Bertha would never forget this night, and its terrible lesson: something you loved could be taken in an instant. _The Lord giveth and he taketh away. Ye know not the day nor the hour. _ Someone you loved could vanish before your eyes.

One moment Doss was there—the next she was not.


	20. Love Finds a Way

The hours began to melt away, and time had no meaning.

For the rest of her life, whenever she thought about the terrible days following Doss's death, Bertha would only remember brief moments, snatches of conversation, from that time. Somehow, she was back at Green Gables. Someone had put a blanket around her shoulders, was pressing a hot drink into her hand. Where was Teddy? She could not see him.

"Bertha?" It was mother's voice, but she sounded far away.

There must have been something in the tea, something to quiet her, for the next time Bertha woke, she was in her bed. "Dossie?" she asked.

"I'm here, child." Bertha struggled to fix her gaze on Aunt Cordelia, but she seemed so small, no smaller than a china figurine. Bertha fell into sleep again.

She remembered mother brushing her hair, buttoning her dress. A black dress. Black—for mourning. There was not a color deep enough to serve as mourning for Dorothy. Teddy's hair had been slicked back and his eyes were red from crying. She heard his voice say, "I want to see her." And then mother's: "No, darling, you'd better not. Try and remember Dorothy as she was, full of life."

The church was full of somber-faced mourners. Oh, there was Myrna Blewett! How funny! Myrna had always hated Dossie, ever since Doss had been picked to play an angel in the Christmas pageant, long ago. Myrna had had to be a shepherd. How red her nose got when she cried!

Mary and Martha were holding each other's hands. Little Lois was calling out to people, too young to understand what was going on. _Would Lois remember Doss? Would she have any memory of the sister who had loved her? _

The choir was singing 'Near to the Heart of God.' Doss had hated this tune. Bertha shuddered to hear it. She would never again be able to hear it without remembering this moment.

_There is a place of quiet rest,  
Near to the heart of God…_

The casket was, thankfully, closed. Bertha could see the candles reflected in its smooth surface. What a large casket for someone so small as Dorothy!

_A place where sin cannot molest,  
Near to the heart of God._

People were staring at her strangely. Why? She felt the pressure of mother's hand on her shoulder. Teddy was crying and not trying to hide it, great gasping sobs. Why was the room spinning and spinning? Perhaps she was dying, too. She would not mind dying. She wanted to get away from all these curious, pitying people. Reverend Spinnet asked the congregation to bow their heads in prayer for the soul of Dorothy Anne Wright. Oh, Bertha had forgotten that she and Doss shared a name. Anne. Dorothy's middle name was Anne—had been Anne—or was it still? Was your name still your name after you were dead? The room tilted dangerously now.

"Doss," Bertha whispered. And then she slipped into a state of merciful unconsciousness.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Bertha might have minded dying a little more if she had known how close she came to it. Perhaps then she would have thought differently. But as it was, she was in no state to think anything at all.

"Pneumonia," pronounced the doctor gravely, and the Wrights turned anxious faces toward the girl in the sick bed. Could God really be so cruel as to take Bertha away from them, too?

Bertha did not seem to have any idea of how ill she was. When she woke her eyes were very bright. Sometimes she thought she was at Ingleside. Other times she fretted that she was bound to miss her music lesson—what would Master Giacomo say? And then she called for Dorothy, in such a heart-breaking, pitiful voice.

Teddy would not leave her bedside—though, Mrs. Wright thought, he was none too well himself. There were dark shadows under his eyes, and he had about him a hunted, haunted look.

Diana Wright leaned her head against the cool window-pane and wondered what to do. Was there any feeling more helpless than that of a mother of a sick child? Oh, if only Bertha would get better! But what could she do? She had already placed a call to the Glen, to tell them the news. The doctor came every day—twice a day. They had a nurse from town who took up residence in the east gable room. Diana had done all that she could. She could do no more than wait—and hope—and pray.

No—she could do one thing more. Di sat down at her writing desk and pulled a piece of paper from her drawer.

"Dear Jordan Gray," she wrote, at the top of the page.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Bertha's recovery was slow. Her fever broke and she wakened, to the family's utter thankfulness. But in her stupor she had lost all memory of Dorothy's death and it had to be explained to her all over again.

She was now quite well enough to sit up in bed and to sip on the heartening broth that Aunt Cordy prepared for her. She sat quite still while Mrs. Wright brushed the tangles from her long, red hair, but her face was very white and her lips were bloodless.

Bertha could not adjust to the world in which she now found herself. Her beloved Doss was gone, and darling Teddy was a stranger to her. He went around the place with eyes downcast, faint hollows appearing in his cheeks. Only once did he try to talk about Dorothy with Bertha.

"It was my fault," he began in a low tone, twisting his hands in his lap. "If I hadn't…"

Bertha covered her ears. "Stop," she said in a voice that was choked with tears. "I don't—want—to talk about Dorothy."

The twins never would be able to talk about that night—the night Doss had been taken—with each other. In later years, when the hurt faded, they might be able to talk over fond memories of their cousin and chum. But never would any word concerning that night pass their lips. Neither wanted to remember the terrible sight of Dorothy's streaming hair and blue-tinged lips. And each, deep down, shouldered all the blame for what had happened.

Bertha pressed her burning face against the cool linen of her pillow-case and knew that Teddy was wrong to blame himself. Yes—it had been his idea to go to the lake. But it had been Bertha's idea to wake Dossie, and take her along. It was Bertha who had skated too close to the black ice. It was Bertha who had killed her cousin—and her best friend.

_Why did I wake her_? she thought miserably. _If I had left Doss sleeping that night she would have been safe in her bed—would still be alive now_. _I wanted to go home when I heard the ice shift and settle—why didn't I insist? Why—couldn't—it have been me—instead? _

The terrible guilt of what she had done would weigh her down forever. Everyone blamed her—she could see that. Aunt Polly could not look her in the eye. Uncle Fred was overly kind. Even Aunt Cordy was being exceptionally gentle with her.

"Aunt Cordy," beseeched Bertha, white faced, as her aunt straightened her sheets and put a blanket over her legs, "Why don't you holler at me? Why don't you tell me how wicked it was to go skating that night?"

"Oh, child." Aunt Cordy sighed. "It won't bring Doss back, will it? Besides, it wasn't your fault. It was the Lord's will, after all."

But—hadn't there been the slightest hesitation in Aunt Cordelia's words? Bertha closed her eyes and waves and waves of pain washed over her. She turned her face away and pretended to sleep, until she heard her aunt's footsteps go from the room. Then Bertha opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling, her mind a blank.

"She should be getting better by now," fretted Mrs. Wright, biting her lip and looking out at the crocuses in the garden. "The doctor told me she should be up and about by this time. Why doesn't our Birdie make more progress?"

Aunt Cordy shrugged her shoulders, and Mr. Wright shook his head. They did not know.

Bertha could have told them, if she had overheard. She did not get better because she did not want to. She did not want to live—not in a world without Dorothy.

Mrs. Wright went out to check the mail-box one mild spring day. She was tired and worried—was there any worry greater than that of a mother of a sick child? A sick child who did not seem to want to get better? She sifted through the day's post with a sigh. Bills—bills—a note from Nan, which Di tucked into her pocket—a circular from a new store in town—and a long, flat airmail envelope. Diana regarded it with the ghost of a smile. This could be just the thing—just the thing!

She brought it up to her daughter's room, along with her supper tray, and placed it in Bertha's lap. Bertha's eyes went to the familiar writing and to her mother's face.

"It's from—Jordan Gray!" she cried, surprised. Jordan Gray—the name sounded rusty on her lips, from disuse. How long had it been since she had thought of Jordan. For the first time in many weeks a faint flush of color showed on her cheeks. Bertha pushed her tray aside and reached for the letter.

"No—please. Won't you stay?" she asked her mother, who had been pulling the door closed, so that Bertha might read her letter in privacy. Di dropped down in a chair by the window, and Bertha shook her head in confusion. She did not know why she wanted her mother near to her while she read this—but she did. With shaking hands she tore open the envelope and unfolded the paper inside.

_My God, Bertha,_ Jordan wrote. His pen-strokes were black and hurried—as though he had written in great haste. _I can't begin to explain to you how I feel at the news your mother has written to me. I've had her letter today and I've been heartsick at the thought of what has transpired for you. Poor Dorothy's death would have been bad enough, for I know how you loved her, dear. But to find on top of it that you are ill—dreadfully ill—and that you might be leaving us, too… _

Bertha blinked back tears, but read on.

_Bertha, you must get well. Plain and simple. You must get well, for your own sake, and for that of your family—it would kill them if anything should happen to you. You must not be silly and blame yourself for what happened to your dear little friend. I've read your mother's letter a dozen times at least and it is clear to me that there never was a girl more loved by her kin than you, darling. _

_You must get better for them—and for yourself—and now that I've said that I shall be selfish and tell you that you must get better for _me_. I cannot keep it hidden inside any longer, in the face of such dire news. I love you, Bertha. I think I have loved you for a long time—ever since I got your first charming, ink-splotched, stilted little note. Darling, do get well. You are my heart—and it would be terribly hard to go on living in a world when my heart had gone out of it. _

The tears streamed down Bertha's face, and she made no check to wipe them away. She closed her eyes and sobbed out her heart's feeling. Mrs. Wright rose in her chair and went to her daughter with alarm.

"Birdie—darling—what is it?"

"He loves me," Bertha choked. "Oh, mother, he loves me."

"And why," asked Mrs. Wright gently, "Does that upset you so?"

"Because," wept Bertha, "Because I love him, too. And because he might be taken from me, mother—and then what should I ever do without him?"


	21. A Season Passes

The summer passed in a haze of days one golden-green afternoon blurring into the next. For the first time Bertha did not find herself running under the sun-dappled trees to Orchard Slope every day, up the stairs to Doss's room. Dorothy's little bedroom at the top of the stairs had been shut up and locked. Her presence was sorely lacking in the little house. A note of cheerfulness had gone out of the bright tune of the place.

For a while, Bertha had forgotten, in her grief, that there was a war going on. Slowly, she came round to realize it again. Bertha threw herself into the war effort with an energy bordering on fervor. She took over Dorothy's little Victory garden and expanded it. She scoured the village for scrap metal. She saved bacon grease and rationing tickets. She wrote long notes and assembled care packages for all of the boys she knew. She worked herself into a frenzy through the day, knowing that hard work to the point of exhaustion would be the only way she could get any sleep at night.

"You must conserve your strength," Mrs. Wright chided her. Bertha waved her away.

"Let me work—let me work," she said numbly. "It _helps_ me, Mother. It lets me forget—for a time."

How bittersweet it was to forget! She did not want to forget about Doss. But it was less painful than remembering. If one could only forget _all_ the time! Remembering was the part that hurt. Bertha tried not to think about Dorothy. She tried not to think about Teddy, and how he had become, over the past months, a stranger to her. Instead, she thought about Georgie, fighting in Sicily, and prayed that nothing might happen to him. He could not be taken, not after Doss.

In the still moments, often in the twilight hours, when the work of the day was done, Bertha thought of Jordan, still training for the war, in faraway Georgia. He had been there for a year. Perhaps he would never have to go overseas. Perhaps the war would be over before his turn came to go.

Somehow, the tide of the war had changed without her realizing it. The British and Italians surrendered in North Africa, and the newspapers reported that German Grossadmiral Dönitz had suspended his terrible battle operations in the Atlantic. The Americans were cutting a swath through occupied Italy and the Allies were 'bombing the Dickens' out of Hamburg, Regensburg, Schweinfurt. Still, the people of Avonlea were not convinced. Old Sabery Andrews had been walking along the shore at night only two weeks ago and he had seen a _mysterious black shape_ rise streaming from the quiet waters of the gulf. Of course he wasn't _sure_ it had been a German U-boat—but then, what else could it be?

The one Japanese family in the entire district had been under strict suspicion since the start of the war, and was now regarded with increasing skepticism, since stories about the horrible doings of the Japanese had begun to circulate over the wires and through the gossip-grapevine that is so much a part of small-town life. Regina Gillis had been to Boston, and had seen a War Department film chronicling the bloody battle of Tarawa, in the South Pacific. Within days of her return, everyone in Avonlea felt as though they had seen the film, too, from Regina's detailed reports. Bodies washed up on the beach, buried in the sand. Forgotten men bobbing on the indifferent waves. Bertha thought of Doss, her black hair slick with water, and shuddered.

Diana Wright did her best to dispel gossip. "I just don't think Mrs. Akoyo or any of her family could be capable of such bloody behavior," she said to her family. "I think I shall have her to tea, and I want all of you to be here to help me welcome her."

"I can't, Mother," said Bertha regretfully. "I've taken a job in Blewitt's Canning factory down the shore."

"Canning!" wondered Mr. Wright. "Why, Bertha! I never thought we'd have a regular 'Rosie the Riveter' under our own roof. Do you think you shall like going out to work?"

"No," said Bertha. "But I'm doing it all the same.

To her surprise, she liked it far more than she expected. Bertha went out every day with her hair tied up in a kerchief, and spent six hours counting casings for mortars and artillery, separating them, sifting them into neat groups of ten and twelve. It was dull, numbing work, but it required her whole attention lest she miscount and have one box end up with nine or thirteen casings. She could not think about Doss, or Teddy, while engaged in such a task.

She did, however, find time to think about Jordan.

In the middle of this maelstrom, the Wright twins turned eighteen. Bertha awoke late in the day. She had been to a dance at White Sands the night before—her first dance without Dossie. She had not wanted to go. It would be the first time she had ever done up her own hair, chosen her own dress, without Dorothy's help, her comradeship. The first time she had ever gone to a party and not had Doss to talk it over with, after. But she must try, for Jordan's sake, to let some of the light back into her life again. She moved her stiff lips into a smile and kept it planted there, and if it did not reach her eyes, it was, at least, a start. She had fallen into bed a very tired girl of seventeen; and woken in the morning as a woman.

Eighteen. Bertha tried the word, tasting it on her lips. She was practically grown-up now, ready to really begin her life. But what would she do with her life? She had missed the Redmond entrance exams and no one had said anything about making them up. Bertha found that she did not even really want to. She did not want to go away to Kingsport and study and learn as if—as if nothing had happened.

She got up slowly and dressed, taking extra time with her hair. Downstairs she heard the chatter of voices. She heard Dad go out into the fields, heard mother go out and start the car in the driveway. She probably had another I.O.D.E. or Red Cross meeting. Teddy, Bertha supposed, was out celebrating the day in his own way. Her heart beat painfully in her chest. 'Her own way' or 'his own way' had never been part of their twinship before.

If there had not been a war on, what a party the twins might have had to mark their eighteenth year! But butter, sugar, and eggs were in short supply, and so there was no cake. They might have had a clam-bake on the shore that evening except that it was strictly forbidden to light a fire of any kind. In the end, Bertha had gone to her mother and begged her to forget the day.

"I don't want anything," she told her. "It wouldn't feel right with Dorothy—well. I'm sure Teddy feels the same way."

Mrs. Wright nodded, and promised that there would be no party that year, if Bertha's heart was not in it. There _was_ a package of nylons on the table as her present, though. Bertha pocketed them with a small smile.

She spent the morning reading the papers, and the afternoon boxing baked goods for her chums. So many of the boys from Avonlea High School were overseas, now. Those tall, well-fed county boys! How many of them would never come home?

In the late afternoon, the hairs on the back of Bertha's neck stood up and she shivered. "Teddy," she murmured, and she went out to the old orchard and waited there, under the trees, so that she could see his car come up the lane.

She waited there a long time. Mr. Wright's motor flashed around the bend and Bertha had a glimpse of her twin's face. She did not go up to the house; she stayed where she was. She knew that he would come and find her—and something told her that she must not hasten the moment of reckoning which she knew must be coming. Oh, she would enjoy these last few minutes before everything changed—_again_.

She had known for some time what her twin would do—must do—but she still was not prepared for the sight of Teddy, coming through the trees, tall and splendid in his khaki, his beautiful auburn curls shorn close to his scalp. He looked so much like a man—and so unfamiliar to her—that she placed a hand to her heart and dropped down among the ferny grasses as though she had been shot.

"Oh, Teddy, _no_," she said, as he came to her. "Why?" she wept, as the tears began to course down her face. "Why are you going to leave us?"

Teddy had a funny, bitter half-smile on his suntanned face. "I must go, Bertha," he told her in a low voice. "Do you think that _I _could bear to stay here—now that _she_ is gone?"

His hand went around her shoulders, lifting her up. Bertha gasped, realization dawning. "You—you loved Doss," she choked. It was all so clear now—their close friendship, the secret signals they had, the special bond that had existed between them. Teddy and Doss had been closer than most cousins. She saw it now: they had been more than friends.

"Yes," Teddy said simply.

"And," Bertha was remembering the way that Dorothy's face would light up from within in the quiet moments, "she loved you, too."

Teddy only shrugged. "Maybe," he said. "It doesn't matter if she did or didn't. But do you see now that I can't stay here, Bertha? Not without _her_."

"If you're looking for a change of pace, you might try Redmond or McGill," said Bertha sarcastically. "You don't need to go all the way to Europe, Teddy!"

"Well, it's a done deal," said Teddy, jamming his hands into his pockets. "I can't take it back. And I _want_ to go, Bertha. Dorothy would have wanted me to go."

"No, she wouldn't!" Bertha cried, but as she did, she realized she was wrong. Doss wouldn't have wanted him to go—but she couldn't have ever loved a man who was fit and able and stayed at home, letting others go to do the dirty work instead. "She wouldn't," Bertha said again, but her voice trembled. "She—would. Oh, Teddy, she _would_ have wanted you to go."

"_And _come back safely," he finished. "Which I shall do, Bertha—you may mark my words." Teddy rose and put his arm around his sister's shoulders. "Today is our day, sister-mine. Let's not spoil it by weeping. Let's go out and roam through our old places and pretend that we are the carefree little scamps we used to be. We'll take a picnic lunch and go down to Hester Gray's garden—and then for a walk along the shore. There will be plenty of time for us to say goodbye when goodbyes have to be said."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Bertha found it was not too hard to say goodbye to Teddy when she thought of what Dorothy would have done. Dorothy would have sent him off with a smile and a faithful, believing little heart. So Bertha tried her best to bid him farewell with a smile on her lips.

But when he had gone, Green Gables seemed utterly desolate. Bertha floated through the days like a ship come loose from its moorings. Her brother was at Valcartier—Doss had gone where no mortal may follow. All of her chums were overseas or away at college. Bertha had a lover, whom she had never met, who was at this very moment on his way across the Atlantic to England. It was _too_ ridiculous!

At times she wondered if Jordan really _was_ her lover—could she be in love with a man she had never seen? She wished she had a photo of him, in his lieutenant's uniform, to pin up on her wall like other girls did. At times she sat down and tried to imagine out what he looked like. She spent hours detailing his face, his eyes, and his hair—but the picture was never quite right. The thing that made Jordan _Jordan_ was always missing.

He still wrote faithfully, but never again had he reproduced the passion of that one love note that she kept under her pillow. Occasionally he would call her dear or darling, but he did not allude again to loving her. Her own notes were shy, and she found she could not put into written word the depth of her feeling. Their letters to each other were tentative, now, as if each were testing the waters.

"I wonder if anything will ever be the way it used to," Bertha sighed, crumpling a half-finished letter in her hand. At that moment, she had little hope.


	22. An Offer from a Friend

Bertha was on her way home from the factory one cool September evening. She had worked ten hours today, and her hands were stiff and sore from sorting and counting casings. Her feet hurt from standing up all day, and her shirt and dungarees were grimy with dust and metal shavings. Her hair had come loose from its snood—yes, Bertha had given in to the unfashionable snood, which had through necessity, become fashionable again—and little strands hung limply around her face. She was a bedraggled sight.

She walked with her head down, silently cursing gasoline rationing. If only father would let her drive the six miles down to Blewitt's and back! But Mackenzie King had been adamant that all loyal Canadians should walk whenever possible, and Bertha had seen the posters all over town: Should Brave Men Die So That You Can Drive?

"I hate this war," Bertha mumbled, as she plodded on.

She continued in this fashion for a long while, so lost in thought that she did not see the long, sleek silver car until it had pulled up beside her. Bertha jumped as a horn tootled, and found herself looking into a jolly, fat familiar face.

"Russet!" boomed Mr. Archibald McTavish. "I always said we'd meet again and here we are, so I was right." He looked extremely pleased as he pulled a little notebook from his pocket and began to scrawl in it.

"What are you doing?" Bertha wondered, knowing that it was not the most polite greeting—but curiosity overtook her.

Mr. McTavish closed the book with a snap and replaced it in his jacket. "I keep a record of whenever I'm right," he told Bertha, tootling the car horn again for emphasis. "So far I've been right twenty-seven thousand, six hundred and forty-two—_no_, forty-three—times in my sixty-seven years."

Bertha thought that the answer was probably much lower, since Mr. McTavish himself seemed to be the judge of when he had been right in any situation. But she said nothing, only shifted from foot to foot as Mr. McTavish leaned over and opened the car door.

"Hop in," he told her. "I'll drop you by your home."

Bertha hesitated. "Should brave men die so that you can drive?" she asked, thinking of the gasoline ration.

"No," said Mr. McTavish breezily. "But maybe a few cowardly ones should."

Bertha glowered. "That's a horrible thing to say."

Mr. McTavish leaned on the horn so that it emitted a long, protesting shriek that rent the night. "All right, all right," Bertha relented, climbing aboard. "You needn't wake the whole Island."

Mr. McTavish was pleased. "I was thinking of you, earlier today, as I ate my lunch at the hotel," he told her chummily, as they swooped along the darkened roads. "I'll never forget the way you marched in all those years ago and told me what was what. I've been feeling lonely lately—my Queen Bess passed away last month. I'm in need of a friend, and I always wanted to see you again, Russet. Last time was nearly three years ago and you were fifteen—sixteen in August. How old are you now?"

"Eighteen," said Bertha dully.

"Eighteen," Mr. McTavish crowed proudly, as if he were somehow responsible for Bertha's attainment of such an age. "Well, you're a sight prettier than you used to be—your freckles have gone away some—but you're too thin. Still, I bet the boys don't mind it."

Bertha remained silent, leaning her chin on her hand, staring out the window at the twilit world that flashed by.

Mr. McTavish furrowed his red brow. "Two years ago you would have bit my head off for any of those remarks," he said. "And now you don't do anything but sigh. You've lost your spark, girl. I've half a mind to dump you off in the road, you've so disappointed me. I don't like being disappointed." But he did not dump her off. Mr. McTavish drove on.

"How is Beauty?" he wondered. "I've thought of her often—every time I see a pretty girl. I haven't yet seen one who can hold a candle to her. I'd like to see her again. She didn't have no spark to loose, pretty though she was. _She_ won't disappoint me."

"Well, if you'd like to visit her now, take a right on the shore road and drive along to the cemetery," said Bertha, in the same dead voice. "Go on through the gates and look for the Wright plot—it's the one in the far left corner, under the willow-trees."

Mr. McTavish braked suddenly, so that Bertha was thrown against the dash-board. Mr. McTavish, she noted, barely moved, for his fat belly was firmly wedged between seat and steering wheel. His mouth was open in shock, and his eyes were wide and hurt looking. Bertha felt her own eyes well with tears.

"Beauty dead?" he murmured. "Why, I never supposed such a thing could happen. I've been thinking of you both alive and well all these years, being squired around by corn-fed country swains. Beauty—dead? No wonder you've lost your spark, girl. I feel mine draining away as we speak. When did it happen?"

"March," Bertha said, biting back a hot rush of tears.

Mr. McTavish started the car and began driving again. The cool wind coming through the window dried Bertha's tears almost before they fell. When he spoke again, he sounded much kinder.

"I hope you've kept up with your singing, girl."

"I haven't," Bertha said. She suddenly thought that she couldn't remember the last time she had sung even a note. Less and less after Master Giacomo went away. Certainly not since Doss had died.

"I suppose you haven't felt much like it," said Mr. McTavish understandingly. "Still, girl—I should beat you black and blue for wasting such a talent."

He pulled up in the drive-way of Green Gables and Bertha got out. At the sight of his wistful face, she felt a little ashamed. He had been so happy to see her and she had been barely civil to him.

"Mr. McTavish," she wondered, "Won't you come in and have a cup of tea?"

"No," said Mr. McTavish coolly. "But I haven't finished with you yet, Russet. I'll be back tomorrow around dinner-time. I have a few things I'd like to say to you but I'd like to collect my thoughts a bit first."

With a final toot of the horn, he pulled away and disappeared around the curve of the road.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Mr. McTavish did not appear the next day, at dinner time or any other time. Bertha waited for him on the porch for most of the afternoon, wondering when he would come. But by the time supper rolled around she knew he must not be coming.

"He is disappointed in me," she sighed. "He doesn't want to see me again."

She waited for him the next day, but he did not come then, either. Bertha sighed, and went back to her daily routine. She almost forgot all about Mr. McTavish.

"I suppose I'll never see him again," she thought, and felt strangely saddened by the idea.

It was a week later, and the Wrights were eating breakfast, when there was the roar of an engine in the road and a loud scream of a car-horn from the driveway. Bertha jumped up from her chair, but before she could run out, Mr. McTavish had run in.

"Sit ye down!" he boomed to the stunned Wrights. "I'm not a crazy man—she can attest to that. Russet—Russet—I know I didn't come when I said I would but I have something for you to make up for it."

He opened an envelope and pulled out a cheque—Bertha stared down at it, recognizing her own name, and then gasped when she saw the sum printed there. She had never seen so many zeros attached to one number in all her life.

"What—is—this?" she wondered.

"It's for your tuition," Mr. McTavish said, settling himself in a chair that seemed insufficient to hold his girth. He picked up a piece of toast from the plate in the middle of the table and devoured it in two gigantic bites.

It was Mrs. Wright's turn to gasp. "Tuition?"

"Yes," Mr. McTavish nodded. He pulled from his jacket another envelope and handed this one ceremoniously to Bertha, who opened it with shaking hands.

"Dear Miss Wright," she read. "It is our pleasure to offer you admittance to the Boston Conservatory for Musical Studies. You have been recommended very highly to us by Mr. Archibald McTavish, President of the Board of Trustees…" Bertha dropped the letter with a shaking hand. "Oh! Mr. McTavish!"

He smiled proudly. "I just bet you're surprised," he said. "I knew you would be. Well, you're welcome. I didn't like the idea of you being so down and I thought this might perk you up."

"It has—exceedingly so," Bertha said, throwing her arms around him. "I am very grateful to you. But—I don't know if I could leave my family for so long—and live so far away…"

"That is why you're coming down to Boston to get the lay of the place," Mr. McTavish pulled a train ticket from his pocket—what else, Bertha wondered, did he have in there? "You can stay with me in my drafty old mansion—and I'll show you all around the place. I bet you'll decide to stay. You," he fixed his eyes on Mr. and Mrs. Wright, "Don't even think of saying she can't go."

"I don't see how we can, in the face of such generosity," Mrs. Wright stammered. "You are very kind to our girl, Mr. McTavish."

"So I may go, Mother?" Bertha asked, trembling.

Mr. Wright and Mrs. Wright exchanged glances. "You may go," said Mrs. Wright finally. "Why, Bertha! Where are you going?"

Bertha was already half-way up the stairs.

"To write to Jordan!" she called back.


	23. The Way It Often Happens

_Bertha, Darling! _

_You can't know how delighted I am that you will be taking a trip to my hometown. I get a shiver when I think that your feet will pass over the places where I have walked; your eyes will see the things that I have seen. Bertha, just then I wanted to write 'your beautiful eyes' but then I realized I have never seen them. I think I shall write it anyway, because I am sure they _are_ beautiful: your beautiful eyes. _

_Yes, I am shivery with delight—and also with disappointment. You will be in Boston this autumn—but I won't. The weather here in Aldbourne is gray and drizzly—real English weather, the type you would expect from Dickens—and it suits my mood exactly. Sometimes I think how far we have come and I am heartened—until I think about how much further we have to go. _

_I have written Mother that she is to invite you to supper as soon as you are in town. I have threatened with under pain of death that she is not to try to cook the meal herself—I want you to survive this war, as I intend to. Simply because I _must_ know the exact shape and color of those beautiful eyes of yours. _

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Mr. McTavish certainly hadn't fibbed about the size of his Beacon Street house. It was a gorgeous, pale pink stone affair, standing close to the road but a little apart from the other residences, as though it did not want to be caught associating with houses that were below its station. Bertha found herself installed in a befrilled and beribboned guest suite—she had the idea that it had been decorated especially for her—and for a day or two she did not know if she would ever be able to feel at home there. It was all 'too, too utterly,' as Aunt Nan liked to say.

But soon Mr. McTavish's bright, hardy brand of kindness tempered the unfamiliarity and the mansion _was_ within walking distance of the music school. Bertha had the delight of her life when she first saw the Boston Conservatory: it was a squat, unimpressive brick building, but it was _full_ of people who valued music as highly as she did, herself. She spent her days singing trills for her would-be instructors, and her evenings eating dinner at the long table in Mr. McTavish's lavish dining room. The table was so big that they practically had to shout to one another to be heard—at least, Bertha did.

At night she thought of home. A hollow emptiness filled her heart when she thought of mother and father by the fire, the radio filling the silence between them. Teddy gone, Bertha gone. Perhaps the Orchard Slope folk would stop by, but Doss would not be with them. Mary had gone away to Queens. With Georgie overseas, that left only Martha and little Lois. Only the grownups and the young folks would be left. There were no in-between beings, no young boys and girls, astar with dreams and possibilities. How desperately lonely it must seem, with all those bright young people gone away!

Bertha did not know if she could stand the thought of that loneliness.

She thought of Jordan, often. She rode a trolley down to Cambridge and stood in the middle of Harvard Yard, wondering if Jordan had ever stood here in this exact place, his ghostly footprints matching hers. She felt her skin tingle as she looked out over the bustling square. She had never know this place with him in it, and yet she felt his absence keenly.

She kept looking for that promised invitation to his mother's home but it never materialized. Bertha felt dismayed at that fact. She wanted to be somewhere where she knew for sure that Jordan had been. She wanted to see the place where he had grown to boyhood, and to meet his infamous Gran. She could only suppose by the fact that she had not heard from his mother that Mrs. Gray did not approve of her. She felt insignificant and unwanted, and she missed him.

Here, in this city of his birth, she longed for Jordan. Perhaps they might have walked to the soda shoppe and sat side by side on the stools at the counter. Maybe they would have gone to that lighted pavilion and danced under the stars. More likely they would have walked hand in hand under that little grove of crimson maple trees—so like home—and he would lean his lips close to her ear and whisper….

Bertha stopped short as she collided with an old woman with a cane.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" she gasped, helping the old lady regain her balance. A pair of hawklike eyes glared down at her. Bertha knelt and began assembling the things that had fallen from the woman's basket—a few balls of yarn, some knitted lace. She felt a crunch under her boot heel and looked down to see a pair of mangled spectacles on the pavement.

"You horrid, _clumsy_ girl," said the old woman in decidedly Yankee tones. "You've _ruined _my eye-glasses."

"I'm sorry," gasped Bertha again, feeling mortified to the tips of her toes. "I—I'll pay for them to be replaced. If you would only be so kind as to write down your address I could send you whatever sum will cover it."

The woman glared more fiercely.

"_Im_pertinent creature!" she cried. "Whyever would you think that _I _would give the address of my _home_ to a common stranger—no better than an urchin? You would probably come and burgle me."

Bertha's eyes flashed green and she felt her features growing cold and pale. She had tried to politely make amends but she would not stand for being criticized.

"Do _I _look likely to burgle _you_?" she asked, in her haughtiest tone, pulling herself to her full height to show off the marvelous tweed suit and green velvet coat that Aunt Cordelia had made for her to take to school. The woman cast her eyes up and down Bertha's figure; she was not impressed.

"Who knows what you may be capable of," she said, and Bertha felt her scowl deepen. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper. On it she printed her own address.

"If you are so determined not to trust me, perhaps you may stop by my residence and collect what you are owed," she said coldly. "I am staying with Mr. Archibald McTavish; I understand that he is quite well-respected. You needn't fear for your safety there and he may be able to assuage your fears as to my character."

The old woman peered at Bertha a long moment and then her face showed the faintest glimmer of a thaw. "And how do you know Archie?"

"I believe that is my _own_ business," said Bertha positively, determined not to be caught out by this terrible old crone!

The woman outright smiled. "You can't be related to him—you're not fat or red enough. Come, come now, girl. You may drop that cold-pale tone. If you are Archibald's friend that we are practically friends ourselves—he tried to marry me, once, a thousand years ago."

"I am staying with Mr. McTavish while I am studying singing at the conservatory," said Bertha cautiously.

The woman smiled, and arranged her basket on her arm. "Oh, pull your elbows in, you little cat. I've decided not to eat you, after all. You needn't worry about paying for my glasses. I never liked the way they made me look. You may go and forget all about me just as soon as you've told Archie that Virginia Gray sends him her regards. I don't doubt you _will _forget all about me. Young people today are terribly flightly. Shulamite!" she called into the crowd. "Come and assist me, I'm wanting to be going."

A broad black woman materialized—so broad and black that Bertha would have stared except that she was suddenly in raptures. She leaned forward and threw her arms around the old woman, with so much gusto that she almost knocked her down.

"I say, what is the meaning of this?" the stunned woman cried, but Bertha was laughing.

"Virginia Gray!" she cried. "Virginia Helena _Murray_ Gray—oh, Jordan was right—you are prickly—but loveable. Oh, oh, I can't believe my luck! You're _Gran_!"


	24. Like Follows Like

"I do hope that they like me," murmured Bertha to herself as she stepped from the Mr. McTavish's chauffeured car into the drive-way of the Gray residence. It was a boxy, severe-looking place, but Bertha barely noticed. She was too busy checking her reflection in the dark window of the car.

She had tried on nearly everything she owned in preparation for this evening—her formal reception by Jordan's family! Mr. McTavish had presented her with a lovely frilly gown and Bertha had fully intended to wear it—it was a deep rose, which was not her best color, but it made her look so grown up. But at the last moment, she put it off in favor of her own yellow crepe. She wanted to look like _herself. _

The pearl earrings that Grand had sent to her shone creamily against her hair. She picked up the little present for Jordan's mother and hied herself up the walk to the door. The maid answered—Shulamite—and grinned so broadly in greeting that Bertha at once felt most of her nerves melt away.

Most—but not all. How quiet this place was, not at all like Green Gables, where there was always music and laughter and chatter and happy homey sounds. "Please follow me to the library," said Shulamite, and Bertha did, her feet sinking deep into the plush carpet, not making any sound at all.

She gasped as she was led in to a magnificent room, with gilt-lettered books stretching to the ceiling on dark walnut shelves. Never before in her life had she seen so many books in one place. Not even at Green Gables, a place where books were highly prized.

Two women sat in wing-backed chairs by a roaring fire, dwarfed almost into nonexistence by the bookshelves. Grand looked especially frail and tiny, nothing like the formidable personage Bertha had seen yesterday. She could not reckon what had caused such a change until she turned to face Mrs. Gray—Jordan's mother.

She had cold blue eyes and the lines on her face suggested that she was the type of person who had always looked for disappointment—and met with it. Her discontentment filled every nook and cranny, became so large that it had a presence in the room beside the three women.

"I—I'm Bertha Wright," Bertha said, because Mrs. Gray seemed to be waiting for someone to say something. It sounded very blunt and forward, and Bertha felt immediately embarrassed. _Of course_ Mrs. Gray knew who she was. She had, after all, written that terribly stilted note inviting her to dinner.

"Charmed," said Mrs. Gray. She did not sound charmed. "It is _so_ nice to finally meet Jordan's little pen pal."

Bertha flushed a deeper pink. Was—that—all she was? In that moment she felt sure she could not be Jordan's sweetheart, his darling, his love. His mother did not seem to think she was, ergo, it could not be possible.

They ate their supper at a table that was only a fraction smaller than Mr. McTavish's. But at Mr. McTavish's house, mealtimes were loud and boisterous and cheery. Here, the only sound was the crackle of the fire and the scrape of the silverware against the fine, bone china. Bertha thought of all the homey places she had ever known—Green Gables, Orchard Slope, Lone Willow, Ingleside—and knew instinctually that she could never live in a place like _this_. She would suffocate here. All the joy in her would die.

"I'm sorry I came here tonight," thought Bertha miserably. She pushed the food around on her plate.

It was only her and Mrs. Gray and Grand. "The doctor" was out, according to Mrs. Gray. Grand said nothing at all, and Bertha began to think that she could not possibly be the woman she had met in the square the day before, the woman full of spark and fire that Jordan wrote about. Bertha even began to doubt that Jordan was the way he seemed. How could he be funny and dreamy and loving if he had grown up in a place so cold, so bereft of any real emotion?

"What does your father do?" Mrs. Gray inquired.

"He is a musician," Bertha answered.

"Oh," said Mrs. Gray. Her tone seemed to imply that there was something wrong with being a musician.

Shulamite cleared the plates and brought in an apple pie. On the surface it looked golden and delicious but Bertha found with the first bite that the apples were store-bought—they lacked the sharp, smoky tang of wild-grown fruit that she was used to. She ate as much of the pie as she could but it wasn't much.

"Are you a delicate eater?" Mrs. Gray asked. "I do hope that you are not a sickly child."

Bertha stammered and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. The lamplight glimmered on her pearls and Bertha saw Mrs. Gray's face harden ever so slightly. Bertha wished that she had not worn these earrings tonight.

The dessert plates were taken away. Mrs. Gray rose. "Will you follow me to the parlour for a cup of coffee?" she began, but Grand waved her bony hand.

"You go on by yourself, Rachel," she pronounced, in tones that were loud and clear. "You obviously don't want any company—that's evident in the way you've treated this poor child tonight. Goodness gracious! I'm surprised the girl isn't frostbitten. You go away and get lost. I want to talk to Jordan's bride and I'm not intending to do it here."

She rose imperiously and led the astounded Bertha out of the dining room and down a short corridor. They went out a door and through the twilit garden and into a small summerhouse. Bertha felt warmth begin to flow through her fingers. Ah—this cosy place was more like it!

It looked like an enchanted cottage. Everything was covered with a faded cabbage rose print and there were warm afghans draped over the backs of sofas. Books and cats were laid upon every surface that would support them. Bertha gasped and gasped.

"This place!" she said, unable to form a coherent sentence in her delight. "This place!"

"It's much better, isn't it?" Grand settled herself into a plump, plush chair by the little stove that sat in the corner like a pert black dog. "You wouldn't believe it now but _this_ is the way that the house used to look—when I ruled the roost. It was Rachel and her hoity-toity notions that effected the change. She's always had a love for the grandiose. The moment my son brought her home I told him that I wouldn't live under the same roof as her. So they installed me here. _I _don't mind it. I suppose Rachel does—she wanted to tear this summerhouse down and plant an English garden."

"I _hate_ English gardens," Bertha said. "They are so rigid and structured. A garden should be wild—or at least, have a _hint _of wildness about it."

"We are of the same mind, then," said Grand. She got creakily to her feet. "Follow me, girl," she said, and started up the stairs.

In her bedroom she threw the window open. "There's a wild apple tree here," she pointed to the black branches. "I brought it with me from the Island as a bride and planted it here. It bears fruit—tangy, appley fruit—but Rachel won't use them. She doesn't believe it _can_ be eaten if it isn't bought at a supermarket. Climb out there, girl, and bring us back some _real_ apples—I can't do it."

Bertha was adept at climbing trees, and in no time she and Grand were back downstairs, sitting by the fire, munching happily on their apples. "These are apples that _are_ apples," Grand said, reaching for another. The emerald on her left hand caught the light and flung it to the farthest corners of the room.

Bertha smiled to see it. It was that emerald—that lost green beauty of a gem—that had gotten her where she was today. Grand caught her looking and prized the ring from her knobby finger and held it out.

"Try it on," she commanded. "It will be yours someday."

"Oh, no," Bertha demurred. She could not believe she would ever own something so gorgeous.

"Try—it—on," commanded Grand.

Bertha slid the ring onto the fourth finger of her left hand. It felt warm and heavy—deliciously heavy. She watched as her hand was transformed from that of a girl into the supple, shapely one of a woman.

"You were born to wear emeralds," Grand remarked. "With that hair—and those eyes—and that coloring. I think I shall give this to Jordan, when he comes home. It will be your engagement ring."

Bertha clasped her hands and looked down into her lap. The ring winked and shimmered at her. "I'm not engaged to Jordan," she said, feeling as though she must be completely honest. "There is no understanding between us."

"You little fool," Grand said.

The silence grew around them. Bertha felt warm and drowsy. She could hear the homey sound of a clock ticking from somewhere. She looked up at Grand and her eyes were neither green nor gray but pure, clear flame.

"She will do him good and not evil all the days of his life," Grand murmured. "I never felt that Bible verse, until now. You needn't worry about Jordan, Bertha. And he was raised in the old ways—the true ways—of love and kindness and understanding."

Bertha nodded.

"Bertha," said Grand suddenly. "Would you like to see a picture of Jordan?"

Bertha held her breath. Oh, she wanted to! She so wanted to have a face to put with his name, his words. Grand got up and removed a snapshot from a drawer. But Bertha would not take it. She slammed her eyes shut.

"I'm being silly," she laughed. "But—I don't want my first glimpse of him to be flat and serious and sepia-toned. I want to see him for the first time as he comes toward me. I want to see his figure coming from far away—and then he grows closer and closer—and then I will look up and there he will be. I don't want to ruin that moment."

"But he may not come home," Grand said shrewdly. "You may never get another chance."

"I am willing to risk it," Bertha said. "All for the sake of that moment—when he turns to me—and I _know_."

Grand said nothing, but Bertha heard the sound of a drawer being shut. When she opened her eyes again Grand was staring at her with a sort of pity—a sort of scorn—but a sort of respect, underneath that.

The clock chimed nine times, breaking the spell of the place. Bertha jumped up, startled.

"I must be going," she said apologetically. "Mr. McTavish said he would send his car at eight-thirty. Oh, I must go but I don't want to. It has been so nice to meet you, Grand, dearest."

"Give me a kiss," said Grand, and Bertha complied, dropping a kiss on the papery brow. She stripped the emerald ring from her hand and held it back to Grand.

"Goodbye, and thank you," she said.

"There is never a need for goodbyes or thanks between friends," said Grand.

When Bertha had gone, Grand settled back against her chair. She suddenly felt very warm and very tired. Her bones were heavy with every one of her ninety-odd years. She had lived a long time in the world and had seen a good many things. The world was full of war and suffering—but it was also full of love.

"I'm glad I got the chance to meet Jordan's wife," she said, and closed her eyes. She would not open them again on this side of the veil.


	25. To Stay or Go?

…_Grand's death was a great shock to me, Bertha. I didn't really believe that she could die until I read the news that she was dead. How can a person so full of life ever really be gone out of it? I still don't fully believe it—I know I won't until I come home and _feel _her absence. _

_I am so glad that she got a chance to know you. I know instinctually that she must have loved you. I had a letter from Grand herself, two days after I had the one from you telling me that she was gone. I haven't had the heart to open it yet but I don't need to—I think I know what it says. _

_I had a letter from Father: it appears Grand's last will and testament has been opened—to show a most unexpected thing! With the exception of a small gift to my sister Emmeline, Grand left everything she had in to _me.

_I had a letter from mother: her fury was barely concealed. She is livid; the only reason she 'put up' with that 'old bat' for so long was the soothing thought that she would have her hands on 'all that loot' in the end. And now she doesn't have it. And she never shall. I marched down to the PX and amended my GI will: if I am killed, Bertha, my whole fortune will pass to you. (But I shan't be killed, darling. I will come home and we will use that 'loot' to set ourselves up in style—but not too much style—just in a little farmhouse somewhere cozy.)_

_I have had letters from everyone and now I want one from you. You must let me know how you are liking the conservatory. Do you think that you will want to study there? It will mean giving up so much—your family, which you are so close to. I can't help but wonder: Bertha, are you going to stay in Boston? _

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It was the question everyone wanted to know. Her trial period at the conservatory was coming to an end. She had stunned all of her teachers with her talent and they wanted her to enroll. They offered Bertha a formal admission, not dependent on the recommendation of Mr. McTavish, and a full scholarship. So she would not be dependent on Mr. McTavish for her tuition, either.

Everyone asked her: Bertha, are you going to stay in Boston?

_I don't know_, Bertha wrote to Mother, and to Dad, and to Aunts Cordy and Polly.

_I don't know, _she wrote to Jordan.

"I don't know," she told Mr. McTavish, and her music teachers, and Shulamite, who had taken to dropping by the house with little delicacies to tempt Bertha's appetite.

"I don't know," she murmured to herself as she lay awake under the frilled canopy of her bed in the guest room.

Oh, she liked Boston. The streets were steeped in history. Ghosts of colonial-era boys and girls peeped from around corners of old buildings. Once when Bertha had arisen in the night she had seen, standing at the foot of her bed, a fair-haired woman in a lace nightcap. The woman was carrying a long tapered candle in a hurricane glass. Bertha blinked and she was gone. She spent the rest of the night in a delicious agony of fear, gooseflesh pricking on her arms. In the morning, when she recounted the story to Mr. McTavish, he laughed.

"Why, that's great-great grandmother Arabella McTavish!" he boomed. "There's a story about her. She woke late one night to see flames from her window. She went from room to room, waking the family. In the morning, they heard all about the Boston Tea Party. Her brother Angus had been there, one of the men emptying the tea into the harbour. He never returned—those limeys had gotten him. He died a prisoner of the British. Arabella was never the same after that. I've only seen her once, when I was a mere lad. She came into my room and stood at the foot of my bed. I was a God-fearing little mite. 'Darn you, spirit, leave me now!' I cried. She smiled and did as she was bidden. I never saw her since and I've always been a little sorry—if I saw her now I'd like to get her to stay and chew the fat for a while. But she took me at my word and ain't never come back—just like a woman, to do as she's told in the most insufferable way!"

Bertha grinned; but even the story of Arabella was not enough to make her feel tied to the place.

She was making friends: Mr. McTavish, and Shulamite and Mrs. Graham, who ran the household. And friends from the music school—a girl named Joanie Parks who was studying violin and one girl with the impossible name of Scarlett Kinnicut, who played the piano. She liked them—maybe even loved them—but they did not begin to approach the feeling she had had for Dorothy, the one true girl friend of her life. But it was nice to have friends again. Bertha told them about Jordan and listened as they poured out their own troubles to her. Joanie had no boyfriend but her brother was in Italy. Scarlett had a fiancé named George Wilkes who was away in the Pacific on the _Indianapolis_.

"Of course, no one _knows_ that we're engaged," she admitted. "There is some bad blood between our family and the Wilkeses—I don't know why—but we've never gotten along. My great-grandmother told me something about it before she died but I was young and I suppose I didn't listen as carefully as I should have because it didn't make much sense to me. I think it's silly to carry on such an old feud and I don't care what anyone thinks. My brother Rhett says he'd rather see me strangled than married to a Wilkes, but I _will_ marry George when he comes home. I'll fly in the faces of all those spiteful old cats! I'll be Mrs. George Ashley Wilkes if it kills me!"

For a time Bertha had forgotten all about the war. She felt guilty over it now. It was autumn of 1943 and things were picking up on all fronts. While she had been singing trills and practicing arias, Italy had declared war on Germany. The Allies had bombed Schweinfurt, and Berlin. The U.S. had sent their Marines ashore at Bougainville and were trying desperately to capture the Island from the Japanese. Jordan was in England, training for the Allied invasion of France that Bertha doubted would ever happen. Georgie was somewhere in Europe, though Bertha had lost touch with him, and was not sure exactly where he was. Teddy was in Sicily, though. Bloody Sicily—where the little mountain paths had been stained red with blood. She thought of Teddy almost constantly, and there was a peculiar undercurrent of fear running through her life. It was as though half of her heart and soul were taken away from her—and she did not doubt that he was in perilous danger. She knew it, by the way her blood oftentimes ran cold, in the most placid of situations. She could be sitting in a classroom, studying theory, and all of a sudden she would break out in a cold sweat, her ears hearing the clang and furor of a far-off battle. That is how she knew that Teddy had had a close call.

She had letters from him, but he never let on how bad things were. Once she had a blood-spattered letter from him and he had been quick to point out that he had sliced his hand on his bayonet—a small wound, nothing to worry about. She knew that he was lying by the pain in her left shoulder that had been there all day. Teddy may have written home about his injuries to his parents, but neither her mother nor father her wrote of them to Bertha.

Only one time did Teddy write to her of Dorothy. 'Dossie would have been eighteen today,' he wrote on November twentieth—a dreary date when the rest of the world seemed focused on the invasion that was happening at Tarawa. Bertha alone knew that it held another meaning, another loss—Dorothy would have entered into her womanhood that day. Oh, how nice it would have been to stand together atop that height and look down at the world they had to conquer! But Dorothy had never left the sweet valley of girlishness. Whatever road Bertha had left to travel she must do it without Doss's help, without the balm of her comforting presence.

"Bertha?" asked Scarlett, shaking her to break her out of her reverie. "I asked you a question."

"I'm sorry, Scarlett, Joanie," said Bertha to her friends. "I was miles away. What did you want to know?"

"Are you going to stay in Boston?" Joanie and Scarlett asked in unison. Bertha groaned.

"Don't ask me that!"

She lay awake all night, tossing and turning. By morning she had made up her mind. She dressed herself with the light heart that comes after a storm of decision and made her way downstairs. "Good morning," she said presently to Mrs. Graham. "I'll take my breakfast with me if you don't mind—I'm in a bit of a hurry."

Then she noticed that Mrs. Graham's face looked gray and drawn. "What is it?" she asked. "What's wrong?"

"Mr. McTavish wants to see you in his study, dear," said Mrs. Graham. Bertha was stunned. Mrs. Graham was, as a rule, prickly. This gentle kindness was not natural to her personality.

"What is wrong?" she cried. And seeing that Mrs. Graham did not know what to say, she fled down the hallway to the study.

Mr. McTavish was waiting by the fire with his back to her. He turned and Bertha saw the telegram in his hand, read the truth in his eyes.

"Teddy," she whispered, clawing at her throat. All of her resolve from the night before had drained away in the face of _this._

"Oh, Mr. McTavish!" she sobbed, "I must go home!"


	26. The Price of Womanhood

_Home_, Bertha thought, as the red roads began to flash by the windows of the fast-moving train. Fast-moving—but not fast enough! _Home. I must get home_.

She had been traveling for a full day, but it felt longer. She had not been able to eat in her fear and worry and the rocking of the car made her feel queasy. She had not noticed the sound the train made as it hurtled along—not at first. But now she did, and with each turn of the wheels her heart beat: _home, home, home_.

When the train rounded the curve of track along the shore Bertha went out onto the little smoking deck and gulped the air gratefully. They were a little past Middle Grafton now—only a little further to Bright River, no more than a few minutes, but to Bertha, how long those minutes seemed! She was off the train almost before it had stopped moving, hurling herself down the steps and into the crowded station-yard. For one, brief, hysterical moment she thought that perhaps no one had come to meet her and her mind whirled with panic—but then she saw her father, a head taller than all the other men. She ran to him.

He looked gray and old and there were white hairs in his beautiful black moustache. But Bertha did not care; she scarcely noticed. She buried her face in the worn tweed of his jacket and smelled his familiar smell—peppermint, and cigar smoke, and the resin he rubbed on the bow each time he played the violin. For a moment she just stood there, her arms around him, fighting back tears. Then she lifted her face, remembering suddenly the reason why she had come, in such a hurry!

"Mother, mother!" she cried. "How is mother? Is she out of danger?"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Dad could not speak of it, so it was Aunt Polly who explained. Mother had been going to have a baby, it seemed; but something had happened; and now she was not going to have a baby after all. Bertha, who knew something of human biology, filled in the gaps in the story. She felt at once sorrowful and glad: sorry, because of the brother or sister that would not be born, now—but glad, so glad, because mother was going to live!

"For a while she was dreadful sick," said Aunt Polly. "Your Pa was beside himself over it—but there was some who said your ma shouldn't risk it at her age. But by that time…" she trailed off decorously.

"By that time it was a done deal," finished Aunt Cordy prosaically.

Bertha thought of the four little crosses in the grave-yard—one for each of the babies who had died; two before she and Teddy had been born, and two after. They all had names of flowers: Daisy, Rose, Lily, Hyacinth. And now there was to be a fifth. Bertha was eighteen, and something in her little womanly soul had begun to crave the sight of babies—fat, roly poly, rosy-cheeked _sweet_ little babies! And to lost not one, not two, but three, four, five…

"How can mother bear it?" she wondered.

Aunt Polly covered Bertha's hand with her own. "It is the price of being a woman," she said softly. Bertha met her eyes and knew that they were both thinking of Dorothy.

Bertha could not see her mother right away; she had been given something to help her sleep, and was sleeping still. She found her father on the verandah and went to him, winding her arms around him.

"Poor Dads," she thought, seeing his haggard face. "Everyone thinks that it's _mother_ who must be hurting most—but perhaps Daddy wanted this baby, too—_just_ as much. Perhaps he was thinking that it would make them _young_ again—and it has only made him feel older, after all."

"Your mother was depending on this child," he said, resting his hand on Bertha's burnished head. "She thought—why, I think she thought it would be such a _relief_, to have something to look forward to that wasn't the war. We were all so worried but _she_ wasn't. She laughed and sang and called it a miracle. You—know—how much she has always wanted a lot of children. 'A house full of children,' she told me, when we were married. And there has only ever been you twins—and we love you—but…"

"I understand," Bertha murmured, and she did. She thought how gay and crowded with bright laughter Green Gables might have been if all of those flower-girls had lived—why, it would have been like Ingleside, back in its hey-day! She grieved for those ghost-sisters she had never met—who had never whispered girlish secrets in her ears, or arranged her hair, or lent her ribbons and pretty dresses…

"And," Mr. Wright went on. "I suppose she thought that—it would be a blessing—if anything happened to—to…"

"You must not think that way about Teddy," Bertha said firmly. "He is going to come through without a scratch, and that you may tie to."

Aunts Polly and Cordelia had been holding down the fort in Bertha's absence and they had done a thorough job. But their time for service was ended. Bertha shooed them away and spent the afternoon rearranged the already pristine pantry. At supper-time she heated some broth and brought it on a tray to mother's room.

Mrs. Wright was sitting up in bed and wearing a pink silk peignoir that Bertha knew she had not picked out herself—neither the red-headed mother nor daughter wore anything in that color. It clashed with their hair. But mother probably had not been thinking about it. She was so pale and thin and bloodless—even her hair seemed paler, faded. But her eyes were bright as Bertha sat down beside her and took her hand.

"We were going to call her Violet," she said, blinking away tears. "Because she would have been born in March—the time of violets. Oh, Bertha, I'm sorry to have taken you away from your studies. But I am glad—so glad—that you've come home. You are—the only child—I have left, now that Teddy is gone away—and he may never return."

Bertha blinked hard and set the soup spoon gentle in the steaming bowl. All through the war it had been Mrs. Wright who kept up a steady, bright, hopeful flickering flame of faith—that Teddy _would_ come home—she had never let anyone even insinuate that the thing was not possible. And now…

"Don't talk that way, mother," she said gently. "I've just been chiding dad about saying these things and I won't have you doing it, too. Teddy will come home; and in the meantime, you will have me. _I'm_ not going anywhere."

"But you should," Mrs. Wright sighed. "You are a grown girl—you should have your own life. Very soon you will have your own home and your own children—and you will not need us so much at all anymore."

Bertha pushed the tray aside. "I'll never be too grown up to not need _you_," she said, and lay her head in her mother's lap. Mrs. Wright began to stroke her hair and Bertha reflected that though she had enjoyed her time in Boston, her heart had not really been in it—all along, it had been _here_, waiting for the time when she would come back to claim it.


	27. A Faithful Heart

They made the best of Christmas that year. Bertha thought that she was _so_ tired of 'making the best' of things. Mrs. Wright was still pale and wan but a _bit_ of color had begun to come back to her cheeks. Bertha saw it and was glad she had not gone back to Boston—though Mr. McTavish had wanted it, badly. He had called up on the long distance and raged at her—posi_tive_ly raged. But Bertha held firm. She was needed at home. It was hard for mother to let her out of her sight. And besides—for all she had liked Boston—she was glad she was here.

Her Boston friends had not forgotten her. Joanie Parks sent her some music to practice and Scarlett Kinnicut sent her a pretty, old-fashioned green silk bonnet—watered silk, the exact color of Bertha's eyes. But Scarlett's eyes were also that color. Bertha wondered why she had wanted to give such a lovely thing away.

"Egads," Scarlett wrote. "I've been looking for someone to take that moldy thing off my hands for ever so long. It's vintage of the last century. It belonged to my grandmother during our Civil War. The legend has it that Grandfather Butler went back to her house on Peachtree Street to salvage it from the Yankees and kept it through all the long years that he and grandmother were estranged. She wore it on her wedding day—her fifth wedding, second to him. What a character old grandmamma was! But I don't want that bonnet—I'm done with relics of the past—so you can have it."

Bertha put it gently in a box filled with tissue. She was sure the time would come when Scarlett would want that bonnet very much, and she would keep it safe for her until then.

From Mr. McTavish Bertha had a fur coat—an actual, plush, soft, delicious sable with hat and gloves to match. She felt a _little_ bad for the poor sable that had died to make it—and a _lot_ bad at wearing such an extravagant coat during wartime, when they were supposed to be pinching pennies. So she stroked it and then packed it away in mothballs, too.

There were books and records from the family, and Teddy had sent to her a weird, heavy silver pocketwatch that he had taken from a Nazi prisoner in Italy. Bertha looked at it with curious distaste. It was a strange present, but she supposed he could do no better in the middle of the war in Europe. She had sent him socks.

She had a stiff, stilted card from Jordan's mother, wishing her a happy holiday—a garish set of hair ribbons from Shulamite (who _loved_ the book of recipes Bertha had sent her) but there was nothing from Jordan himself. Not even a letter. Bertha's spirits sank on Christmas morning. She felt a little put out. He was overseas, true, but _he_ was still at camp—not in the war, yet. He might have at least sent her a card! She had sent him a lovely photograph of his grandmother that she had taken with her old Brownie camera and put into a frame. _And_ she had written him—well, she had written him something, at least! She felt ashamed over it now, and wished she had not pepper that missal with so many kisses. If he was not even going to write!

She felt so indignant all through the day that she could not eat a bit of Christmas dinner. Aunt Cordelia brought out the plum pudding that had been soaked in a little bit of pilfered brandy and the others oohed and ahhed as it was set aflame. Bertha sniffed. The telephone rang, then, right in the middle of the meal, and normally they would have let it ring. But Bertha was feeling so restless that she ran and got it.

"Wrights," she said blandly, thinking that perhaps Jordan had been injured, and that is why he hadn't…

"Bertha?" said a deep voice. It was not a voice she had ever heard before in her life but…she recognized it! Oh, she did. She pressed one hand to her heart and her breath came faster.

"'Lo?" said Jordan Gray. "Bertha, I'm calling from England. Can you hear me, darling?"

At first her words would not come. She felt breathless, choked. Jordan said, "Hello? Hello?" and finally she managed to gulp air.

"Jordan!" she laughed, cried, screamed. "Oh, Jordan Gray, is it really you?"

"Yes," he laughed (what a delicious, rumbly sort of laugh he had! She wouldn't have expected it of him but it _suited_), "It's really me. Bertha, I've been waiting in line for eight hours at the officer's quarters here in Aldbourne, just to place this call. It's costing me two months pay. But—it's worth it. Do you know, you sound exactly how I imagined you?"

"_You_ don't," she laughed.

"I don't? What did you think I'd sound like? How do I sound?"

"Well…"

"Well…"

"You sound _just_ like a Yankee!"

They laughed together. It was a wonderful sound. When they stopped Bertha felt suddenly shy.

"This is a far better present that what I sent you," she admitted.

"Nonsense!" Jordan boomed. "I love that picture of Grand—she looks so impish. Bertha—at first I was afraid you'd sent me a picture of _yourself_. I didn't want to open it. I made Lieutenant Winters open it for me. 'How does my girl look?' I asked. 'She's a little old,' he said—he's a dry wit, Dick is. Bertha—I want to see you so badly my teeth hurt. But I'm glad I haven't seen you yet—I want my first glance of you to be on the other side of this war. I want to watch you fly into my arms. Do you know what I mean?"

"Yes," she said. "And oh, I feel the same way."

They were quiet again. Bertha heard the tinny fuzz of the overseas line and thought perhaps they had been disconnected.

"Jordan? Jordan?"

"I'm here," he said. "Bertha—will you sing to me?"

"Sing? Over the telephone?"

"Yes. Please? We don't have much time left. And I want to hear you, dearest. I want to hear your pretty voice."

"What if I can't carry a tune in a bucket?" she joked.

"Please," said Jordan. He was not laughing.

"All right." Bertha thought for a while. Finally, she decided, and she began,

_Solitudini amiche, aure amorose,_

_piante fiorite, e fiori vaghi, udite_

_d'una infelice amante I lamenti, _

_che a voi lassa confido. _

_Quanto il tacer presso al mio vincitore, _

_quanto il finger ti costa afflitto core! _

The family had abandoned their dinner and come into the kitchen to see what was going on. They stood in the doorway, watching as Bertha sang, tears in her eyes.

_Zeffiretti lusinghieri,_

_Deh volate al mio tesoro:_

_E gli dite, ch'io l'adoro _

_Che mi serbi il cor fedel._

Her voice had suddenly gotten choked, but she sang on:

_E voi piante, e fior sinceri_

_Che ora innaffia il pianto amaro,_

_Dite a lui, che amor più raro_

_Mai vedeste sotto al ciel._

When she was done it was very quiet. Bertha thought she might have lost him again, but then Jordan said, "I'm still here."

"Oh, thank God."

"Bertha—I know that piece. Zeffiretti lusinghieri, Ilia's aria from Idomeneo."

"Yes."

He quoted:

"Gentle breezes,

Fly to my beloved,

And tell him that I adore him

And keep his heart faithful."

"Oh, yes. Yes. That's it exactly."

"I will be faithful," he said.

"And I will, too."

The operator cut in on them. "I'm sorry, but your time is up. I'll disconnect you now."

"Bertha?" she heard Jordan's voice from far away. "I do adore you, darling. Do you hear me? I love you."

"I love you, too," she said. "I love you, too!"

But she was talking to dead air—the line had been cut off. Bertha turned to her family, tears streaming down her cheeks. She did not even bother to check them as they fell—but she was smiling, smiling from ear to ear, smiling more than she had since the terribly day that Doss had died.

Her family looked at her agape. "Who on earth was it?" wondered Mr. Wright and Bertha laughed through her tears.

"It was Jordan Gray," she said, and suddenly it was the best Christmas she had ever known.


	28. Jack Wright Receives a Letter

It was a bright June morning—early June 1944. Jack Wright had been at the fields since dawn, and was only now, around noontide, was he able to slip away to town. He collected the day's mail from Postmaster Pye and thanking her, set off toward home. It was getting on toward summer, a strange time for him. During the winter, he was a creature of music, composing radio jingles, music for soap operas, and what he hoped would one day be the next hit song of the generation. But in spring he turned his thoughts back to the land, the land that would need to be tilled and planted and worked over in order to yield the autumn's crop. The changeover from musician to farmer always was a shock to him—and the change back, once winter came, was equally jarring. But it was far along enough in the season that he had begun to enjoy the sun on his back and the pull of his muscles as he worked.

Already his fields were covered in a filmy green mist that would grow stronger and greener every day. He was proud of his fields, his crop, his home, as it sprang into distance around the bend. There was Green Gables—proud and stately and cozy and humble all at once. The windows were open and he saw Di's slender form pass in front of the window. It had not been an easy winter, and spring had only been a little better. But Di's return to health was almost complete and Bertha—Bertha had been a true soldier through it all!

The first few months of 1944 brought more care and worry to the little green house. The Allies were in Anzio—but Teddy was with them. It had been a long and bloody campaign northward to the city of the seven hills—the Italians were no longer in it but the Germans seemed determined to hold on to every yard of ground. They fought bloodily for every mile, every foot, every inch. The Wrights had watched in horror as the blue stars on the service flags all over town had changed, overnight, into gold. But so far their own star in the parlor window was still blue and for that, Jack Wright thanked God. He did not know if they could stand to lose Teddy. If they did…but no, he would do as Bertha bade him and not think on that.

The Germans had retreated from Anzio on 25 May and only yesterday, June fifth, had come the news that they were now in Rome. And _here_, in the pile of mail, was a letter from Teddy. Jack did not wait to go inside to read it but tore it open on the road.

_Northward we go, Dad—marching on to the city on the Tiber. Do you know I can't wait to reach it? I keep thinking that Rome was founded by two brothers—twins, like Bertha and I. Bertha feels very close to me, in this country. I think of the Italian phrases she taught me via Mr. Giacomo. Mostly, I only know how to say operatic sorts of things—but they are coming in handy with the Italian girls, who come out and blow kisses to us as we march by, who sing and laugh and are the prettiest girls I ever saw. I wouldn't mind having one as a wife—or two, if possible—but I think I shall save myself for a good Canadian girl in the end. _

_Dad, does it sound terrible to say that I am enjoying the war? Perhaps 'enjoying' is the wrong word for it. But it suits my singleness of purpose, fighting does. Each day I have a job to do and I do it well and go to bed knowing that I shall do the same on the morrow. The horrible things I have seen, well, I shan't go into them here. But they only serve to anchor me, to make me want to do my job better. I felt so lost after Dorothy died and this war is bringing me slowly back to myself. It feels strange to be grateful for a war. I suppose I'm not really grateful for it—but grateful that it is giving me a second chance to appreciate my life. Because I have seen those who have lost everything, and I mourn for them, and have decided to make mine _worth_ something. _

Teddy was a man now but it was a boy's letter, full of hope and idealism. Jack remembered his own days in Europe, in the first war. Teddy would most certainly come home a man—how could he avoid it?—but he would have won back some of that lost enthusiasm and gratitude that he had lost when Dorothy had died. Oh, Jack wondered, would any of them ever really know what had gone on between those two?

There was a letter from Mrs. Dr. Blythe, Ingleside and Mrs. Young Dr. Blythe, also Ingleside, for Di. Another from Nan. A sheaf of correspondence from Boston for Bertha—and here a letter for Jack himself. He opened it, and read with some surprise. Why, it was from the American, that Jordan Gray that Bertha was in love with.

_Mr. Wright, I sit here in my bunk late on the eve of _[here the letter was censored heavily, so Jack thought he would never know on what eve Jordan had sit down to write to him. But he would know—and soon enough. _It is a pretty evening, the kind you think you cannot know in a place that is supposed to be dreary as England—or perhaps you Canadians have different views of what this country is like? In any event, it makes me nostalgic—but not for home. Instead, I am thinking of what you and Bertha and your family must be doing, tonight. I wish that I was with you._

_Sir, it cannot have escaped your knowledge that I love your daughter, very much. I write to you to-night to ask if you will let me marry her—when this war is ended, and when I come home—as I plan to. My family is not poor: to put it plainly, I am a very rich man. She will never want for anything when she is my wife. But more than that—for I know that there are deeper things that must trouble you—more than that, she will not want for love, and companionship, and indeed, true, lasting friendship between us. She will be made happy to the best of my abilities to the end of my days. _

Jack found that there were tears in his eyes—he brushed them away with some irritation, blaming them on the sun, which was high overhead. The truth is that he was thinking of the day when he had driven to Ingleside to ask Dr. Blythe for the hand of the fair Diana. "She will always be happy," he had promised her father. "I will never let anything bad happen to her?" Dr. Blythe had looked at him a little pityingly but assented. Jack knew now that he must have been thinking that no man can guarantee earthly happiness. For that is what he thought now. Jordan could not promise to keep his daughter from all harm. Sometimes—Jack thought of the row of white crosses in the grave-yard, the son that was away fighting overseas—sadness and fear came anyway, despite all best intentions. No: Jordan could not keep her from all sorrow. But, at least, they would be together through it. And that would make a difference.

He walked across the lawn and when he was almost to the house the door flew open and Bertha came out. Her hair was in disarray—the two little Blewitt girls she was supposed to be instructing in piano were no where to be found.

"Where have you been?" she cried to her father. It was a breathless sort of moment. "We had the news during breakfast and I've been looking for you since. The Allies are invading France _as we speak. _Oh, Dad, Oh, Dad—it is the beginning of the end!"

"It started about midnight—the landings came around six o'clock this morning," clarified Mrs. Wright, putting an arm around her daughter.

"Jordan is there," said Bertha rapturously—without a trace of fear. "I know he is doing his duty—how brave he is!"

Mr. Wright handed the mail to his wife. But the letter from Jordan he slipped into his pocket. He would not speak of it today—not on this day of days—he would wait until later. For though this might be the beginning of the end, it would be a long time until the end actually came. He kissed his daughter, once, and went inside.


	29. Forgive Me

Bertha waited.

She waited through the first awful, wonderful day. June 6, 1944—she would never forget the feeling of that day, not for the rest of her life. When Bertha was an old woman, her splendid hair muted to a silvery-white, she would come across a box of things in the attic at Ingleside: a pink enamel heart on a gilded chain, a string of paste pearls, badly decomposed, and a little leather-bound diary embossed with the initials _BMB_. Aunt Rilla's diary—Bertha smiled and thought back to the wealth of memories of her pretty, generous aunt, and opened the book, and read for most of the afternoon, as her own children and grandchildren moved around in the house beneath her. When she read Rilla's description of Gertrude Oliver's dream on the eve of the victory at Piave, 1918, she would remember the feeling of June 6, 1944, as clearly as if it were happening all over again. Wonder—hope—fear—incredulity. She would remember it as the moment the tide had turned.

Her good mood carried her through the next week. She wrote happy letters to the people she loved, who were far away from her. To Scarlett Kinnicutt, so far away in Boston, planning her wedding to George Wilkes, who had been discharged from the Navy and was home; to Joanie Parks, who occasionally dropped her a line or two between concerts; to Martha, away from home for the first time and suffering a bad case of the blues at Queens. To Teddy, overseas, and cousin Georgie, overseas, and cousins Blythe and Gilly and Walt overseas, and even cousin Cecilia, overseas as a nurse in England. It soothed her, all of this writing. She wrote in batches, so that she could go more often to the post office. And while she was there, to remark, in what she hoped was an offhand way, to Mrs. Pye, that as long as she was there, she might collect the post for Green Gables. Since she was there. And Mrs. Pye handed over the letters with a pitying look.

And there wasn't anything from Jordan Gray.

Throughout the second week of June, Bertha consoled herself with the thought that even if Jordan had written _on the very day_ of the invasion—which he probably hadn't—how would he have found the time?—it couldn't possibly have reached her yet. She woke at the beginning of the third week with her heart hammering under her ribs. She spent the morning in church, and her fingers were clenched white. There were so many things for her to pray for and yet she could only think of one thing, over and over: _A letter. A letter. Please, God_.

The post did not come on Sundays. On Monday Bertha woke with the sun and sat down at her little desk before the window. The sun was coming up, baptizing the world in pinks, dove grays. She could smell the roses all the way up in her room, coming to her on the breeze that ruffled the curtains. For the first time, June seemed like an affront. The world was decked in rose-pinks, sunny yellows. Soft whites, columbine blues. Bridal colors.

She reached mechanically into her drawer and brought out a piece of stationery. Wrote a long letter to Mr. McTavish. How could she write so breezily of things when her heart was a leaden lump in her chest? She included a card with Susan Baker's recipe for monkey-face cookies written out neatly and clearly, for Shulamite. Signed, sealed—all that remained was for it to be delivered.

Bertha's fingers failed as she placed her hat on her head. Her hands shook so badly that she dropped the hat, and then picked it up and threw it. It was a straw derby, with purple ribbon and lilac net; she had thought when she bought it that she oughtn't to, when they were supposed to be making everything count, but she had been entranced by the contrast of the purple against her scarlet hair, and she had paid for it almost without realizing, and then it was hers, done. Vanity—it had been vanity that made her buy it—but she had thought Jordan would like it, if he could have seen it. All the day she had played in her mind what he would say. Suppose her letter had not come because of—vanity? Suppose it was God's punishment?

"God doesn't work like that," Bertha said to her reflection. Bertha-in-the-mirror stared back, doubtfully.

Her spirits lifted as she walked the old cow-path to town. She did not know yet, for sure, that her letter had not come. It was so delicious, she thought: the possibility that it might be there, at the post office, waiting! But the other coin: that it had not! She could not bear if it had not! She clutched Mr. McTavish's letter in her hand so tightly it crumpled, and made an abrupt turn away from the direction of town.

Orchard Slope was still sleeping. It was early yet—Aunt Polly and little Lois were fighting bad summer colds. Aunt Cordy was in the kitchen, however. Bertha had not planned on meeting her, and Aunt Cordy had not planned on meeting Bertha.

"What is it, child?" she asked, snappishly, seeing Bertha's muddy boots marring her clean-scrubbed floor.

Bertha burst into tears without quite meaning to.

The story tumbled out, piteously, and Anne Cordelia Wright felt her heart turn painfully in her chest. She was reminded of the time after Doss died, when the girl had gone around white-faced and lost-looking, as though a vital part of her had been removed, and she did not yet know how to live without it. Doss—dear Dossie. Poor Doss, and poor Bertha. What if Doss had lived—Cordy was not given to what-ifs—but she could not help thinking that Bertha needed a gentler touch. She needed someone to lean on—everyone knew Di was better, but she was still in no condition to deal with a heartsick daughter. Cordy took her niece by the hand and led her to the table. Let her cry. When Bertha had cried herself out, and was sitting limp and exhausted, she said,

"Give me that letter, Bertha Anne, and I'll walk it to the post office for you. And get whatever's there, waiting." Aunt Cordy sounded so certain that something would be waiting! Bertha felt her spirits rise, and felt a glimmer of something light and sweet in her breast. Hope. It was hope.

"Mrs. Pye mightn't give it to you," Bertha said, doubtfully.

"She'll give it to me," Aunt Cordy said, with a jerk of her bonnet-strings. "You just sit tight, and I want to see every one of those sticky buns gone when I get back." For the girl was getting to be alarmingly thin.

Bertha sat and did as she was told. The first sticky bun was hard to get down, but the next two followed with surprising ease. By the time she had eaten the third Bertha felt more like her old self again. How could she have thought anything had happened to Jordan? They loved each other, and their love was like a thin filament that connected them at heart-level. If anything had happened to him, surely she would have known.

She felt so light and certain at the thought that she jumped up and danced around Aunt Cordy's kitchen. She stopped at the sink and rolled up her shirtsleeves, and filled the basin with soapy water. By the time Aunt Cordy arrived, all of the dishes in the sink had been washed and dried and put away.

Aunt Cordy went to Bertha and kissed her. She pulled from her apron pocket a letter.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Diana Wright moved aside the parlor curtain and peered out in the garden, where Bertha was walking among the roses. She paced up one row and turned, paced back, all without taking her eyes from the letter she held in her hands. Her face was so white—her eyes so large. Di realized with a start she did not know what was going on in Bertha's life lately. She only had the feeling the girl had been pale and wan and edgy for a week, worried that Jordan had not written. Before they would have sat and talked and Bertha would have poured out her fears to her. But Di had been so ill—and after that, so melancholy—she and Bertha had not talked, really talked, for weeks.

Di stood back from the window and decided she would go to her. She knew it was Jordan's letter that Bertha was reading—she would go, and ask her about it, and they would hold each other and laugh together, and pray together, for his continued safety. But at that moment a cry pierced the hazy June morning, and when Di looked again, Bertha was running, running for the house.

She threw open the door and Di regarded her, for one half-second, all wide, hurt eyes and wild hair. Her face was like a sheet, her eyes burning in it—and then Bertha gave another cry, the sound as full of pain as anything Di had ever heard. She dropped her letter as she ran for her room, did not even notice. Di stood, stricken. Suppose the boy—well, suppose he was—? She reached for the letter, her own heart in her throat.

_Bertha_, was written in Jordan's familiar hand, and Di was so grateful to find he wasn't killed that she did not notice the lack of any salutation, any endearment. She hesistated a moment, wondering if the letter was meant for her eyes, or should be reserved for Bertha's, only Bertha's. Upstairs came the sounds of sobs, and Di shrugged off any fear she might be prying.

_This is a difficult letter to write_, Jordan Gray had written. _But I find I must write it, and I suppose it's like any other hard thing. It should be done quickly, and without any misleading sort of preamble. I wonder if I should couch my words at all—but you would know them for patronization, and I find I can't patronize you, even now. I owe you more than that. _

"Even now?" Di murmured, wondering what had changed. "Even _now_?"

_Bertha, we have never met another in real life but I know that we know each other despite that. You can know someone without _knowing _them. What I mean to say, though, is that my time here has changed me—has already changed me, I haven't been here that long, but it has. I do not think you can know me anymore, for I do not know myself. Here I go, writing more than I planned—I will say it plain, as I meant to—if I have ever given you any indication that I loved you, or anything beyond that, I was mistaken. I—I do not love you, Bertha. I said it once: I find that while I care for you, it is not what I made it out to be. It is not love. _

Di drew in her breath, sharply.

_Your friendship has been many things to me: a comfort, a joy. A respite in this trouble world, a bright spot. But I fear, given the tone of your letters, that you feel much more for me than I have felt for you. I am sorry. I did not mean to 'lead you on.' I should hate to lose your friendship, but I should hate to hurt you further by causing you to imagine things that can never be. I ask you please to not write me again. I shall not write you. _

_Please accept my continued best wishes for the good health of yourself, and your family. _

_JORDAN GRAY. _

What—what an awful, cold letter! Di thought, and she was angry with Jordan. He could not mean the things he said. She had had enough of his previous letters, through her daughter, that she knew this one rang false and untrue. It was not how he felt—it could not be. How then, could he have written it? What was he playing at?

She turned the letter over in her hands and saw one line at the bottom she had missed. Jordan had written it in thick black strokes, as though he were in the middle of a great agitation:

_Bertha—Bertha—forgive me, but it's for the best. I see that now. Oh, Bertha: forgive me, __darling__. _

He had crossed it out: darling. But he had written it! What could he mean by it? What did it all mean?

She could not wonder on it. Upstairs, she could hear Bertha crying as though her heart were breaking. Di folded Jordan's inscrutable letter back into its envelope and climbed the stairs to her daughter's room. 


	30. The End of Things

Di moved to the bed, and sat. She stroked her daughter's hair.

Bertha had sobbed herself out; she was strangely calm, though her face showed the ravage of her tears. "Darling," Di said—that treacherous word! Jordan had written it, but he had not meant it! "Dear, what happened? Did—did anything happen between Jordan—to make—him do this?"

"Nothing happened," Bertha said, bitterly. Di realized she had never heard her daughter speak bitterly before, never in her life. Not even when Dorothy had died. "I was only a little fool, Mother. A little, grasping, reaching fool, trying to press on him things he did not want."

"Oh, Bertha! No—no—you mustn't think it was like that. It wasn't."

"Jordan did not promise me anything but friendship," Bertha said, as calmly as if she were talking about a cake burned in the oven, a ruined hat. "We spoke of love—theoretically."

"He wrote you—after Doss died—that he loved you. That you were his 'heart.'"

"He did not mean it—_that_ way. I was the one who assumed. There are different kinds of love, Mother."

Di clutched at straws. "At Christmas—when you sang for him—he said it, before he signed off."

"The connection was bad," Bertha said. "Who knows what he really said? He could have said anything."

"Bertha," said Di, helplessly, and Bertha sat up, suddenly.

"No, Mother. _No_. It wasn't like that. He is so much older—he is so—he's from the city and I am only a stupid country girl who thinks she is the star of a romance novel. I found his grandmother's ring—and I suppose I thought that we were destined in some way to be together, but things like that don't happen in real life. I should have known better. I know better, now. It has been a hard lesson to learn, but I have learned it. And I don't want to speak of it again to you. I am ashamed—so ashamed—but I _won't_ have it spoken of. Jordan Gray is nothing to me, now. And he—he never was."

Di found that her breath had been taken away by the sheer bitter passion of her daughter's words. She reached out to her, as though to touch her, but Bertha stood and fled to the window. She looked out for a long while.

"I've lost everything," she said, more to the roses than to her mother. "First Dorothy, and Teddy—for when—if—Teddy comes back, he will not be mine the way he was—and now Jordan. Only I never really had _him_ to begin with. I only thought I did."

When she turned back she was perfectly composed, but a light had gone out of her eyes.

"Go away, Mother," she said flatly. "Please go away, and leave me alone."

Di knew that she should stay but she was heartsick, and frightened by this new Bertha, whom she did not recognize. She stood and went out. Downstairs she met Jack in the kitchen and told him what had happened.

"Perhaps it is for the best," Jack said, in an offhand way. It was so much like what Jordan had said that a chill traveled up her spine.

"Perhaps it would have been best if I hadn't risked my chances on a poor farm boy," she said, coldly, to her husband, who had _been _that farm boy, once. "With a violin on his shoulder and a head full of dreams."

"We were meant to be," Jack said, a little uneasily, now, for he knew his wife was angry with him. "It's not that I don't feel for Bertha, Diana. I do. But we don't know if this Jordan was meant for her. If they're meant to be, they will be."

"Or else they won't," Di said, hearing the bitterness in her own voice. "And what will Bertha _do_?"

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Here is what Bertha did; she threw herself into her music. She played the piano with a passion she had not in years. She mastered a tricky concerto by Rachmaninoff, and worked her way through a book of Chopin etudes so full of trills and runs and complicated fingering that to hear her play so smoothly took everyone's breath away. But she did not sing—nobody ever heard her sing.

She kept up correspondence with her friends Scarlett and Joanie, and made tentative plans to visit for Scarlett's wedding in the spring of the next year. She began talking about going back to the conservatory. Mr. McTavish came for a visit and took Bertha to an opera in Charlottetown, which she watched with a smiling mouth and flat eyes. Mr. McTavish took her home and wondered what had happened to the girl. He wended his way over to Orchard Slope and talked it over with Aunt Cordy, who had impressed him once or twice before with her plainspokenness.

"Rossie ain't the same girl. Ain't the same at all."

"She is changed. A great grief will do that to a person. And please do not say 'ain't,' Mr. McTavish. It isn't proper grammar. I do not want little Lois picking it up."

"Well, I apologize, Miss Wright. I ain—I'm _not_ used to watching what I say. Well, what to do for the girl is the bloody question! I've scads of money—if there was anything I could buy that would put the smile on her face I'd get it, in the tick of a damn!"

Aunt Cordy did not say what she thought might perk Bertha up, but her eyes said, very eloquently, what she thought of Mr. McTavish's 'damn.'

Mr. McTavish sent away and had delivered to the White Sands hotel a trunk of fashions from New York: slim-skirted suits with peplum jackets, off the shoulder ball gowns edged in seed pearls, confections of hats and stack-heeled leather shoes. It must have come from the black market—it must have—and even Mr. McTavish was a little ashamed of himself for spending so much. When he presented it to Bertha, she only sighed.

His brows pulled together. He was hurt—Bertha noticed, and she 'perked' up. She flipped through the dresses and tried each one on and modeled them, and she let Mr. McTavish lead her in a waltz, and then laughed and clapped as he tried to teach Aunt Cordy to jitterbug. Aunt Cordy was not the jitterbugging sort, but she step-step-triple-stepped grimly as the Andrews Sisters harmonized on _Little Brown Jug_. The sight of Aunt Cordy letting Mr. McTavish twirl her was enough to make Bertha whoop out loud—_real_ laughter.

But even if she laughed sometimes, at other times, her feelings showed plainly in her eyes.

One day a package came in the mail, with a letter from a solicitor in Boston. He apologized for the delay, but Mrs. Virginia Gray's estate had been particularly tricky to settle. In her will, she had left nearly everything to her grandson, Jordan, but she had made one particular bequeath to a Miss Bertha Wright, Green Gables, Avonlea. Bertha reached in among the wrappings and found a velvet jewel-box. She held it awhile, knowing perfectly well what would be within. She flipped the lid. The emerald winked and glittered at her, as if taunting her. She took it out, and held it. It was cool and unwieldy. Overlarge. Why had she ever thought it beautiful?

She wondered what would have happened that day in Hester Gray's garden if Dorothy had been the one to find the ring, not her. Perhaps Jordan would have loved _her_—everyone loved Doss. Bertha had the fleeting though that if anybody had to be taken, it should have been her own unloveable self. What if Mother had found it and sent it back—Jordan couldn't have fallen in love with Mother. But perhaps he and Bertha would have crossed paths, even so.

It would have been better if nobody had found it at all.

She could not keep it, this ring that she had thought would plight her troth to Jordan. It was too cruel. But Gran had not known this is how things would turn out. Gran had seemed so certain that she and Jordan—but it was no use thinking of those things now. Bertha put the ring back in its box and wrapped it, and wrote a letter to the Boston lawyer telling her she did not want it, and could not accept it. Her hand shook so badly as she wrote that she wondered if her writing would be legible.

When she was done, she walked down to the Avonlea Post Office and deposited it.

"So that's done," she said to herself, as she walked back home. Such terribly finality! But it _was_.


	31. Aunt Cordy Surprises Everyone

In August, a remarkable thing happened.

Mr. Archibald McTavish proposed to Miss Anne Cordelia Wright.

And Cordy _accepted_!

Mr. McTavish explained everything to Bertha over brunch at the White Sands hotel. "Of course I never thought o' marrying her at first," he said, tucking into his plate of eggs. "But we spent so much time trying to think of a way to cheer _you_ up, that she sorter grew on me. It was the damnedest thing! She's not the type of leddy I'd usually go for. I like em a bit more plump, as a rule, and younger. Cordelia's a tough bird, but she's sensible and—and—"

"And?" Bertha prompted.

"And I love her, blessed be," finished Mr. McTavish, sitting back in his chair with a helpless look. "She'll take good care of me and she'll probably make me quit smoking, but I'll do it if she wants. Who'd have thought? Who'd have thought it? But the heart wants what it wants, and I want Cordelia, even if she'll boss me into an early grave."

Aunt Cordy had a different version of the story. "He wore me down," she confessed to Bertha, sitting at the table in the Orchard Slope kitchen, looking younger and—and almost pretty, Bertha realized. She had never realized Aunt Cordy had _dimples_ before! "He kept asking and asking, and I finally said yes. I must have been crazy. He's rich, to be sure, but he's a flippant sort of man, and I dislike flippancy. But there's _something_ about him. And," she added virtuously, "I'll break him of his bad habits. It's my Christian duty, as his wife."

"Don't you think that perhaps you _like_ him, just a little bit?" Bertha teased.

"God bless me," Aunt Cordy confessed, "But I do—he's interesting—and he calls me his little 'pet.' Bertha—you must know—I've been in love before. I don't know if anyone's ever spoken of it to you. Tim—Timothy Gillis—he wanted to marry me, but he died, in the first war, before we could. It about killed me, Bertha. It _did_ kill a part of me. I swore I'd never marry again—but that shows what the Lord above thinks of foolish mortals' plans. Bertha—what I mean to tell you is—don't do what I did. Don't close yourself to the possibility of love. You may think it might never come to you, but it will. I know it will."

"I don't want to talk of it," said Bertha, lightly. The smile never left her face but there was an edge of steel in her voice. "I'm sure I'm as happy as I could be, seeing you so happy, Auntie."

"We'll live in Boston half the year," Aunt Cordy said, a little wistfully. "But Archie's son lives there."

"Archie's _son_, Aunt Cordy? But Mr. McTavish has never been married…"

"Oh, yes," said Aunt Cordy, with a wave of her hand. "A youthful indiscretion. Terribly wicked, of course. But Michael McTavish is a dear boy—a man, I suppose, though everyone under thirty seems a boy to me. _He _can't be blamed for what his father did, and Archie's transgressions are between himself and God. When I met Michael at White Sands last week he shook my hand and said he thought his father had chosen 'a sweet little mother' for him. His own mother died when he was a boy. Of course he's grown, and he won't need much mothering—but he'll marry and have children of his own one day. I think I'd like that. I—I'm grateful for him, Bertha. I've always wanted children and if I can't have them of my own I'd like to have grandchildren. Oh! Bertha—we're going to be married at the hotel at the end of the month—will you be my bridesmaid?"

"I'd love to, Aunt Cordy." There was a lump in her throat, but Bertha swallowed it down. "I'd love it more than anything. I'd be honored."

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Michael McTavish seemed as fond of Aunt Cordy as she seemed of him. Within a week of the engagement he was a regular fixture at Orchard Slope. He was a tall, slender fellow of about twenty –six or –seven, with a face that showed what his father must have looked like thirty years prior and a hair of thick, sandy red hair. The first time he saw Bertha he grinned, mischievously, and said, "Why, hello, Carrots."

Bertha could not help grinning back. His smile was infectious. "You'd better watch out," she warned him. "My grandfather got a slate cracked over his head for saying that, once."

"Really? Who did the cracking?"

"My grandmother."

"She sounds like a fiery broad."

"Oh, she is. You'll meet her at the wedding, and she'll tell you the whole story. I suppose we should be glad for Granddad's lapse in tact. She hated him bitterly for years over it. If he hadn't called her 'Carrots,' they probably would have had a childhood romance that petered out before adulthood, and _I _wouldn't be here today."

"Thank heavens for old Granddad, then," said Michael, looking at Bertha in a way that made her blush. "Well, it's nice to see another redhead. I'm used to being the only one. At least Dad and Mother Cordy will have a matching pair of attendants on their big day." For Michael was to be Mr. McTavish—Uncle Archie's—groomsman. "You'll save me a dance, won't you, doll?"

"I will," said Bertha, laughing. When Michael had gone, she found she remembered the way his eyes had flicked over her. That long, appraising look. It was nice, she thought, to be appreciated. After what had happened with J—after what had happened.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

For a few wild weeks the world was nothing but wedding plans. They talked of nothing besides the food, the music, the flowers, Aunt Cordy's dove-gray suit and hat, and the honeymoon—which Mr. McTavish was keeping a secret. They were quite limited in their options—couldn't go to Europe, or Asia, or the South Seas, because of the fighting, but he swore up and down that he'd thought of the perfect place. His dear Cordelia would be thrilled. At times Aunt Cordy threw up her hands and cried that it was madness, it was wickedness, to spend so much! Imagine how many war bonds they could have bought with this money.

At which point Mr. McTavish went out and bought heaps of them. 'Anything for Cordelia' was his motto, and Bertha found, one day, that she loved him for it. Aunt Cordy was rosy and plump and happier now than she had ever been. And she had not felt that queer, horrid ache in her heart for some time. She had been too busy.

She supposed she owed Mr. McTavish that, too.

There had been a horrible day when a letter came for Bertha in the mail—she opened it, absently, her mind on the yellow dress she would wear for the wedding. From Teddy, she thought, seeing the blocky print.

Jordan's anger leapt off the page at her.

_What the hell were you thinking, returning Grand's ring? Her solicitor wrote me you couldn't get rid of it fast enough. What game are you playing, Bertha? That ring was yours—Grand wanted you to have it. It's yours, by rights, more than it is anybody else's. You're angry at me—you don't want anything to do with me. But don't insult my grandmother's memory, please. Write and call me a dog, if you must. But don't throw her generosity away. Grand always loved you, and I thought you loved her. I see now that was a game to you, too. _

_The ring was yours, Bertha. It was _yours.

His words hurt her terribly. She wept over the letter, over the ring, over Grand and over Jordan himself. She took up a piece of paper and sat, poised, with her pen, thinking of what she could say to him. That Grand had given her the ring before, meaning it for their engagement ring. That she cursed that horrid ring in the first place. It had been the start of this pain. That she wanted to write and tell him all manner of things, but she couldn't, because he had told her not to. She ended up putting her writing things away.

"It's best to let bygones be bygones," she said. She held Jordan's letter in her hands. Perhaps it was the last she would ever have from him. She brought it to her lips as though she would kiss it but at the last second, tore it in half. It felt good to tear it again—tear it into pieces. When Jordan Gray's angry words were obliterated, Bertha gathered them up and threw them into the stove.

Later in the afternoon, when Michael McTavish called and asked her to go to the movies with him—_Arsenic and Old Lace _was playing, and he knew the dolls couldn't resist Cary Grant—Bertha only hesistated a moment, before she told him that she would.


	32. Oh, Promise Me

Aunt Cordy said, "Don't you dare turn that mirror around, Diana Blythe. I don't want to see it. I know just what I'll see if I peer into it: a fat old hen playing at being a chick again. I'll never speak to you again if you do."

Diana Wright, who had not been Diana Blythe for over twenty years, sighed patiently—smiled impishly—and turned the glass anyway. She had known Cordy long enough so that she wasn't afraid of her threats. Besides—Cordy looked gorgeous. Her dove-gray suit was the height of fashion, and her silvery-dark hair had been twisted up into a sleek chignon. A small, netted hat, meant to take the place of a bridle veil, was perched atop her head, and in general, Cordy resembled the cluster of pale, overblown peonies that she clutched in her hands: not the new, fresh furl of a rose, but ripely beautiful. Not a girl, no; but a beautiful woman all the same.

"Is that—me?" laughed Anne Cordelia Wright, who had once been a slim, daring young girl with a cap of sleek curls that had set Jem Blythe's heart aflutter. As if she could not recognize herself. Di thought, as she watched Cordy watch herself, that she could see, for the first time in many years, that lovely, imperious young girl. For the first time, the lines of grief and care that had been etched in her face by Tim Gillis's death, all those years ago, fell away. A slight flush came to her cheeks and Di nodded approvingly. "I told you we wouldn't need any rouge."

Cordy said, shyly, "This is the happiest day of my life."

Di reached over and kissed her cheek. Carefully—so not to smudge the powder. She said, "Cordy, we've had our moments, but I mean this from the bottom of my heart: nobody deserves this happiness more than you do."

Both of them turned to peer out the window into the hotel patio, where the guests were waiting. Bertha was lingering by the door, a tall golden column in her yellow dress. It suited her, in color and cut, but she did not look well. Both women knew that she put up a strong front, most days, but in this brief moment her guard was down, her eyes huge and piteous in her face.

Cordy said, "I'd trade it all if I could see her happy again. Really happy—not this pale show of it."

Di said, "So would I," and the two women who loved Bertha Wright most watched as Michael McTavish surprised Bertha by tapping her shoulder from behind. She whirled, and when she turned back she was laughing, her shoulders thrown tall again.

Di said, "Michael has been so good for her. Perhaps there's something there—or will be."

Ah! But Di Blythe had never loved and lost. Cordy watched her niece take her stepson's arm as the band struck up the first strains of the wedding march.

"Perhaps," she said neutrally, and the women moved to the door, where Jack was waiting, to escort the bride.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Michael was still cross with her. Bertha could see it in his face. They laughed and joked together, but nothing had been right between them since the night before, when they had quarreled. It had been such a stupid fight. She had only asked if he had ever thought of joining up. She had not known about the childhood accident, that had taken most of the sight from his left eye—how could she? He had never said, and it _looked_ perfectly normal! But Michael had been upset. "Did you think I was a _slacker_?"

And she had said, _no_, she didn't, but it was an honest mistake. He didn't need to jump down her throat. And because she felt so guilty at making him feel bad, she had added that _just because_ she agreed to go to the movies with him now and again didn't give him permission to manhandle her throughout them. 'Manhandle' might have been a strong word—he put his arm around her, he tried to kiss her—but his face had flushed at the accusation. Well, he asked, in a dark voice, why did she even bother going out with him when she could be with _Jordan_, dear Jordan, instead? Bertha trembled. She had not spoken of Jordan to Michael. How could he know?

She had leant him a book of poetry and he had found the letter pressed between it. Had read it—had him with it now. He handed it coolly—and a little shamefacedly—over, and Bertha's eyes filled with remembered pain._ You are my heart, _Jordan had written—once!—_and it would be terribly hard to go on living in a world when my heart had gone out of it. _She had had this letter from him in that horrible dark time after Doss had died. She had been reading this book of sonnets when Doss had died. There was one in it: _Time does not bring relief, you all have lied_. _Who told me time would ease me of my pain? _She had attributed it to Dorothy before, and had put her letter from Jordan in the page, casually. How funny that that line should pertain more to him, now, than it did Dorothy? She hardly ever thought of Dorothy with pain. It was sweet to remember her, when once it had hurt her. But ever since her heart had been broken by Jordan, she had not had enough hurt to feel poorly about Doss. Oh, she missed her—missed her—would have given all she had, including her own life, just to see her again. It was only that Doss's memory was like a faded rose. A little bittersweet—but mostly sweet.

Michael chose that moment to tell Bertha that he loved her; at least, he was falling in love with her. If she would only let him he would love her as much as this Jordan fellow had—more—heaps more.

Bertha had thought for some time it was what they were heading toward, but when he said it, she could not bear it. Michael's funny handsome face, his lopsided smile. She could not love him. Not—yet. Oh, how that _yet_ hurt her! It _hurt_ to think she might one day love someone as she had loved Jordan. She felt as though Michael were trying to take something very precious from her. She flashed with anger, like a violent star, and told him to take her home. She had not said another word to him and had gotten out of the car and gone in without looking back.

The march had ended, and she must get up and sing now. She had not thought she would ever sing again and had not wanted to, but Aunt Cordy had asked her so sweetly. The musicians played the intro, and Bertha counted the beats until she must open her mouth and sing. _O Promise Me—_hideously old fashioned, but they had sung it at Grandmother and Grandfather Wright's wedding so long ago. Bertha cringed at the lyrics--_Oh promise me that someday you and I,__Will take our love together to some sky. _Maudlin—sentimental—and yet people were crying. She saw them. People were such fools. Anybody in love was a fool. (Oh, but did she really think it? She didn't—she didn't!) She sang mechanically and was rather pleased by her performance. Master Giacomo could have found no fault with it. Though there were a few who knew Bertha very well and looked at each other—her mother, father, Grandmother Blythe—and wondered if she would ever sing with her heart again, as well as her voice.

xxxxxxxxxxx

Michael was cold to her throughout the wedding party, and he was not there in the morning to see his father and Aunt Cordy off on their honeymoon. The Grand Canyon—Mr. McTavish had arranged it—but Michael was not there. Bertha waited a day or two and went down to the hotel to look for him.

They had a very stilted lunch. Finally, Bertha could take it no longer. She said, "Michael, can't we be friends—like we were?"

"Anything's possible."

"I hope we will be since we are cousins now. Step-cousins—and I do like you for _you_. And—because—your father and Aunt Cordy have asked me to come and live with them in January when my classes at the conservatory begin. It is going to be awful living so near one another if we aren't friends."

He said, "Suppose you tell me about this Jordan fellow, and what he means to you. And then I'll tell you if we can be."

She felt very tired. She said, "Let's not do it here. Let's go someplace else and I'll tell you everything."

xxxxxxxxxxxx

She had thought she would take him to Hester Gray's garden. She had thought she would rob that place of its meaning. But at the last moment she changed course and led him through Lover's Lane, instead. The leaves were just beginning to die, but it was still lovely, spiced with the faint beginnings of autumn.

They sat on a fallen bough and in a low voice Bertha told him everything. Her voice was so clear and calm while telling that it startled her. Was she really so unfeeling? No—she decided—it was just that she was numb to it, now.

When she was finished she hid her face in her hands. Michael took them away. His jolly face was very serious, now.

"Bertha," he said. "I could kill that fellow for what he's done."

"Oh, Michael…_don't_ say it. I don't want anything like that. I don't want you to hate him—and I don't want to hate him myself. I just want—I just want for us to be friends."

Michael kicked at a heap of fallen leaves. Finally he said,

"I don't know. Of _course_ I want to be your friend. I want to be more than your friend. But—but Bertha, I've my own stories. I shan't get into them now. I'll just say that if you like me for me, that's fine. But if you like me because I help you forget him—well, that isn't very fair."

Bertha thought for a moment. "I do like you because you've helped me—forget. But it isn't the only reason. You made me laugh, Michael, when I thought I wouldn't, ever again. And I like that there is so much that you _can_ laugh at. The world is a ball of fun for you. Not that you aren't serious at times—but that you are happy. You make everyone around you happy. Michael—I _do_ like you for _you_."

He looked at her another long moment. "You're going to break my heart, Bertha Wright," he sighed. "I feel it in my old bones."

She could not promise. She knew what promises were worth—how easily they were broken. She covered his hand with hers, and they sat together, in that old place, where so many lovers had whispered and kissed. Where so many friends had been together.


	33. The Darkest Day

"The Allies are in Germany!" said Bertha, with an air of triumph in her voice, at the tail end of October, 1944. "That is the beginning of my good mood."

"What is the end of it?" asked her mother, wryly. Or at least: wryly on the outside. On the inside, she was feeling rather triumphant herself, seeing her daughter's eyes sparkling as they hadn't in a long while—as they had done in the old days.

"There is no end to my good mood," said Bertha, seriously, her eyes dancing. "But I _do_ have a sheaf of letters from people, and that helps sustain it tremendously. I'm going to sit right down, here, and read them while you get supper, Mother. I'll read little bits to you, and entertain you, so it will be like I'm helping."

"Exactly like that," laughed Di. "Who first?"

Bertha had opened a letter and was scanning it. "Michael," she said.

"And what does Michael say?"

"Oh," Bertha was airy. "This and that. Look, Mother, here's one from Aunt Cordy. _Dear—hope you are well—_ah! Queen Bess has had kittens, she writes. _We are saving the best one for you, Bertha dear. It is a sweet little gray thing covered in fluff. I do not like cats as a rule but I must admit there is something queenly about Archie's Bess_. _He thought that we would not get along and yet sometimes I believe she likes me as much as anybody and I admit it is a nice thing to have a cat curl up on your lap on one of these cold Boston days._"

"Cordy," Di said, "Is living proof that a person can change—for the better."

"_We're getting your room ready, _Bertha read. _Archie decided it needed a new look—and I sort of agreed. He told me I mustn't think of the expense, because you'll be here for at least a year, and by the end of it the fashions will have changed again. We have gotten you a canopy bed, like the ones in the storybooks you and Dorothy used to read_. Aunt Cordelia is determined to spoil me, Mother."

"So it seems," said Di, thinking that if anybody deserved to be spoiled, it was Bertha.

"Master Giacomo!" Bertha cried, opening the next note. "Mother, this is from him! He's living in New York, he writes, and he's heard through the grapevine that I'm going back to school in Boston. He's glad, and he hopes I'll come visit him when I can. He's teaching at a little school for colored children there. Don't you think that's noble, Mother?"

"I think that Mr. Giacomo is a true gentleman," Di said. "Does he say anything else?"

"Only that he wishes us all well. A nice thick note from Teddy! He doesn't write as frequently as he used to, but he is writing a war and so I suppose I'll forgive him. I'll read you the whole letter, Mother, since he's your son."

"Thank you," laughed Di, who had had a letter of her own from Teddy that morning.

_Dear Birdie_, (Teddy wrote),

_We had a spate of heavy fighting recently around Pisa; you know Pisa, dear, of Leaning Tower fame. It's odd that I've seen it and you haven't. I'll bring you here sometime when this war is over. You know, if there wasn't a war on I'd be grateful for this trip. I never would have thought of coming and roaming round Italy on my own. Perhaps I never would have seen the lovely things I've seen: Sicily, Pisa, and the city of the Seven Hills. But I've seen terrible things, too, Bertha, and those will be with me just as long. I find I want to write to you, but you wouldn't understand them. I don't say that to be disparaging—I could describe to you the way it feels, how it sounds, during a shelling. I could try and make you understand how it feels to see your friends hurt or killed…but I've never been good that way with words. You would stare at me, and you wouldn't understand at all. _

_Bertha, I was on a reconnaissance today in the woods, and I heard the loveliest singing in the treetop. I followed the sound—looked up—and there was a skylark, just like in the old song: 'Skylark—won't you tell me where my love may be—won't you lead me there?' We don't have larks in Canada. I'm ashamed to say I followed it, for what seemed like miles, and Lord Skylark wasn't as helpful as he's supposed to be in the song. He led me very nearly to the edge of a German encampment, and I had to use my head to get out of there with my hide intact. I think that's the last time I deviate from my chosen path for the sake of romanticism—at least until the war is over. _

_It is only that it is so easy to forget there is a war on sometimes. I suppose that sounds odd, too, when there is a war on, but as Mr. McTavish—Uncle McTavish—used to say, a body can get used to anything—even being hanged. _

_Keep those letters coming, darling. I live for them._

Bertha and her mother were silent a moment. Di Wright turned to the window and dashed tears from her eyes, surreptitiously. It was not that anything particular in the boy's letter had upset her; it was only the fact that he was far away and they did not know yet when they would see him again. Bertha saw her shoulders tremble and reached for the next letter, eager to get her mother's mind off of the subject of Teddy.

"And Scarlett writes that the wedding has been pushed back to April," Bertha reported after glancing over the pretty pink stationary that was her friend's signature. "She says—oh, Mother, it's short, I'll just read it to you. _Dearest Bird, clear your calendar for March and reserve, s'il vous plait, the last Saturday in April, instead. We've moved the date again. I'm beginning to think this wedding will never happen. But there is some conflict among the Texas branch of the family, and they've written quite nicely asking us to push it back. We really don't want to, George and I, but his great-great-aunt Honey and her husband had about fifteen children and their descendants are like Abraham's—as numerous as the stars in the desert, or some such. If they weren't to come, our wedding would be positively dead_. _Well, I feel rather like a beast for being put out over it. We've had a run of bad news here with the push into Germany. It seems like every family in Beacon Hill has gotten a telegram. Some boys I went to school with are dead, Bertha. Boys I played with. Boys I _knew_. Eb Brown was shot at Boulougne and injured terribly, and Jordan Gray was killed at Arnheim, in Holland, back in September…" _

Bertha blazed through the sentence, reading the words but not comprehending them. And then her mind made the necessary adjustments, and her voice failed her. She read it again, to be sure. _Jordan Gray—Arheim—Holland—Jordan Gray was killed_. Could it be another Jordan Gray? But Scarlett had written _Beacon Hill_. Jordan's family lived in Beacon Hill. So did Scarlett's. She felt her heart begin to pound. She read on. Scarlett had written more.

…_and his mother, Mrs. Rachel, is just beside herself. Apparently they had a big fight before he went overseas. She wanted him to finish out his law degree at Harvard, and he wanted to join up. And now this has happened. Well, doesn't it seem like a sin to worry about my wedding when others are worrying about things like this?_

Di gasped, "Oh, Birdie…" Her face was a picture of horror. After everything that had happened, this. She had thought it could not be worse, and yet this was the worst of all.

Bertha sat very still as the news became real to her. Jordan—dead? Dead! Jordan—no, he could not be. He had treated her badly but he could not be dead. The world went fuzzy around the edges and then Mother was calling to her from the end of a long tunnel. _Bertha? Bertha?_

She had loved him, loved him, loved him! He had not wanted her to love him, but she could admit it now. Now that he was—gone. Dead. He was dead and so he could not mind her loving him.

Oh, it hurt—it hurt terribly. It hurt her that Jordan had gone out of the world. All of the things she had loved about him: His easy humor, his introspection, his dear, faithful way of looking at the world, as though it were just a young, mischievous, naughty world and would always do the right thing in the end. He had believed in the world's goodness. She thought of the way he had asked her things, how he made her realize things about herself that she had not known. For so long he had been a part of her. She told him things she had not told anyone else. He had made her _live_ again, after the horrible time with Doss, when she had been so ill. His friendship had gotten her through the first awful weeks and months without Teddy. He had encouraged her, he had tested her mind, he had sent her luck and well-wishes from miles away. He had _believed_ in her. And now he was gone—he was dead.

Bertha thought, "I'm glad Grand isn't—isn't alive for this. It's better that she didn't see it. And she would have been in heaven, waiting for him, waiting for him with open arms." The thought was a comfort, somehow. A small comfort—but a bright spot in all this darkness.

She closed her eyes and thought of Jordan Gray, but all she could see in her mind was an empty spot. Oh, it was the worst thing of all. When she thought of Doss, poor, lost Doss, she could _see _her, rosy cheeked and black-curled. When she thought of Jordan she could not see him. He was gone—gone forever—and she had never seen his face. And now she never would.

"Bertha," said Mother, winding her arms around her daughter's stiff shoulders.

"It's all right, Mother," Bertha said faintly. "It doesn't mean anything to me—because it can't. Jordan was quite clear about that. He—he was lost to me—long ago, before this. I've no right to feel sad."

And yet—it was with her, that deep, overwhelming sadness, filling every nook and cranny of her being. Bertha's throat ached, and she wished she could cry. Jordan—dead. Jordan.

And she had never even seen his face.

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Jack Wright climbed the steps to his daughter's room; his heart heavy in his chest. His wife had met him at the door when he had come home from harvesting the back fields, and he knew when he saw her face what he must do. Oh—he dreaded it—he had been so wrong. And yet, he must do it. He must go to his daughter and confess.

His hand hesitated on the doorknob. Suppose—suppose Bertha hated him? But then his heart swelled with anger—at himself. She had a right to know. And he had had no right to do it. If she was angry—and she would be—it was his cross to bear. He must live with this wretchedness for the rest of his life. She deserved, at least, to live with the knowledge of what had really happened. Jack thought of his daughter's white, drawn face, and knew: she deserved to have this bittersweet happiness, this final joy. She could hold it in her heart the rest of her days, and perhaps it would help her. It could not fix things. Nothing ever could. But it might help her, to know the truth.

Bertha allowed him into her room and sat curled up in the window seat, looking down at the twilit garden. Jack sat at her desk and watched her face as he spoke. He told her everything. Her face was unchanging. He reached into his pocket and drew out the letter from Jordan Gray—the one he had received months ago, in June, on the very day that the Allies had invaded. Bertha bent her head to it, and he saw two fat tears drop down onto the page. When she looked up her face was perfectly white, save for two wet green eyes that were glowing with feeling.

Jack knew he must speak. "Jordan Gray loved you," he said, miserably. "He wanted to marry you. And I thought—if something like _this_—should happen, it would kill you. So I asked him to wait. I asked him to break things off with you, and if he were to come home safely, to try with you again."

"He loved me," Bertha murmured. "Even through those dark days, when I thought he didn't, he did. Jordan loved me. He wanted me to be his wife." And Jack knew she was not speaking to him, but to herself.

He said, "Bertha, I thought I was thinking of you, but it was selfish. I was thinking of what it would mean for us, if you were to go away. I haven't any right to ask you: but can you forgive me? Do you think you ever can?"

His daughter looked at him for the first time. Her face—so like his—and so like Di's dear one. (Oh, Di would kill him, and she had every right to!) There was a curious lack of emotion in Bertha's face. For the first time Jack could not tell what she was feeling just by looking at her.

Bertha said, "I—How could I hate you? You have given me this." She clutched the letter to her breast. "All those—months—when I thought he didn't love me, he did. And I loved him, too, so in the end we were still loving one another from afar, the way we always have. It doesn't—it doesn't change anything. Oh, Dad, of course I forgive you—I already do—but won't you leave me now? I have—I have to be alone with my dreams. I put them hastily in the ground before, to get them out of sight. But now I have to bury them properly."

He moved over to her and touched her face. "God help me, Birdie," he said, looking old. "God help me, but I've sinned."

She said, "He loved me. He _loved_ me, after all."

When her father had left her, they came: those tears she had wanted all the afternoon. The tears that couldn't come, but did, now, streaming down her face. Jordan was gone, but he had loved her. He had loved her, through it all, but he now he was gone.


	34. Letters to Jordan

_19 January 1945_

_So here I am in Boston, after all these long months. Here, darling, in your hometown. And you aren't here. You won't be here again. Oh, Jordan, I walk these cobblestoned streets, where great men once walked, and all I can think is if _you_ ever walked here. If my feet are touching the same places yours touched, once. Did you ever walk here, dreaming? _

_Did you ever walk here—thinking of me? _

_My classes at the conservatory are going well. I am working my way through Dido's Lament—'When I am laid in earth'—_

_When I am laid, am laid in earth, May my wrongs create_

_No trouble, no trouble in thy breast;_

_Remember me, remember me, but ah! forget my fate._

_Remember me, but ah! forget my fate,_

_And I find, for once, that I don't have any hardship in connecting my voice to my heart. Jordan—what bit of earth did they lay you in? If I walked the earth my whole life over, would I ever find it? _

_There was a school concert last night, we sang a very modern composition by a fellow student. It couldn't hold a candle to anything Teddy ever wrote. But I sang my solo diligently, and I expected to look up out over the audience to see everybody in tears. But when I was finished—applause! It just goes to show, Aunt Cordy is fond of saying, that all the money in the world can't buy good taste. _

_Michael brought me a dozen white roses, and they are in a vase on the table in my new room at Uncle McTavish's house. I never hated the smell of roses before, Jordan. Perhaps I don't hate the roses—perhaps they just remind me of how Michael took my arm and steered me around the room. Introducing me to everyone as his 'sweetie!' His 'girlfriend!' _

_I suppose if you could read that, Jordan, you'd approve of my loyalty to you. But what would you make of this next bit? _

_Last night, Michael kissed me. It was my first kiss, if you can believe that. Sweet 19, and never been! But I was always saving my lips for you, darling. When he kissed me, my first sensation was that I didn't like it. At all. His lips felt cold and slick. But there was feeling in them. And then I closed my eyes and thought of you, and I could _see _you, Jordan, though I've never seen you before. You were tall, but not too tall, broad shouldered, but not too broad-shouldered, dark haired, strong chinned, dark eyed. In short, there was nothing about you that made you quite stand out from any other handsome man about your age except that you were _you_. And all at once, Michael's lips on mine were _your _lips and I found I was kissing back, but I had to stop. It would not be fair to him, you see, to let him kiss me while, in my mind, I kissed you. I do not love Michael that way, but I care for him, and I do not want to hurt him. It would have hurt him if he'd known. _

_Jordan: I always thought that gossamer thread that connected us could not be severed. And if it ever was, I thought I'd feel it terribly. But it has been, and all I feel is a great numbness. At times it is enough for me to believe you are not dead, but then I pinch myself, and wake up. It would be a lovely dream, but dreams don't happen out here in this big, hard world. _

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_15 February 1945_

_St. Valentine's Day, I have it on good authority, was created to honor a man who was beaten to death and stoned, and beheaded outside the Flaminian Gate. Oh, Jordan! I believe it. I _felt_ like poor St. Valentine all through the day yesterday, when all I could see for miles and miles were lovers pitching and wooing. And I have a lover of my own! For I must admit to you now that that is the best way to describe Michael's role in my life. After that first kiss, he thinks he can kiss me whenever he wants, and I let him, because it is easier than not letting him. I do not love him—no, I don't! But I am halfway there. He is a wonderful man and honestly, the only thing that keeps me from falling in love the other half way is you. Oh, Jordan Gray. There are so many ways in which I was blessed to know you, and so many ways in which my life would be better if I never had. _

_As Aunt Cordy is fond of remarking: It is better to have loved and lost than never loved at all. But it isn't always true, is it? General statements like that never are. _

_But think of all the things that would be different if we had not loved. There are things about myself I would not know. And your Alice—do you remember her? Perhaps you would have married her, and she would be the one hurting right now. I'm glad to have spared her that pain. I don't know her but I wouldn't want anyone else to feel this way. Perhaps Dorothy would have lived. I don't mean to say you're responsible for her death. Just that one thing can change the course of so many other things. Perhaps she would have died, and I'd have died, too, because I'd have never gotten your letter that brought me round to life again. Perhaps Aunt Cordy and Uncle Archie never would have met, and wouldn't have married, and I'd never have known there was a person as Michael McTavish in all the world. _

_Perhaps I'd be married now to someone like—like Freddy Sloane. With a brood of babies clinging to my skirts. _

_Michael gave me a box of candy, yesterday, for St. Valentine's, and a watch. Autn Cordy and Mr. McTavish exchanged a glance at that watch. Apparently it is a family tradition: watch comes before ring, the same way chicken comes before egg. _

_What do you think of that, Jordan? What would you think, if you could know about it? _

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_24 February 1945_

_A letter from Teddy today. And a letter from home. Grandfather Blythe has died. I feel as though I should be more stricken by the news. I owe it to Grandfather, the wonderful, kind man. But I can't summon up the sadness I should have. First Dorothy, then you, Jordan. All my sadness has been quite used up. _

_I know that every one of my cousins have a story like this, but I do think in some ways I was grandfather's favorite. I didn't see him as much as Aunt Faith and Uncle Jem's children, or Aunt Nan's and Uncle Jerry's, or Uncle Shirley's Cecilia or Aunt Rilla's brood, but I was the only one of the whole bunch to have Grandmother's red hair and her gray-green eyes. Trudy has the eyes, but not the hair. Merry has the hair, but not the eyes. Grandfather used to like to have me around, to look at me, and he talked to me in a way I don't think he talked to the others. At times I thought he wasn't talking to me so much as he was talking to 'Carrots.' Did he imagine himself a young boy, again, tramping the Avonlea woods with his best friend and dear little rival? I think he did. And I know he loved me for me, too. _

_Oh, Jordan, here come the tears. I suppose there's enough sadness to go around, after all. _

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_1 March 1945_

_Jordan, weeks ago I wrote to you that Michael had given me a watch. A slim thing, gold and diamonded. It belonged to his mother. I wrote of it as a prelude to an engagement ring. _

_And I'm right. Michael proposed to me last night. _

_I was expecting it; all the same I wasn't expecting it at all. We were walking through Harvard Square when he asked me. Jordan—I feel so guilty—I was thinking of you! I was peering around the crowd, straining to see your face. Isn't that ridiculous? When you are dead and I've never seen your face. But I was looking for you all the same. How did I think I'd know you? I can't answer that. _

_Michael went to Harvard, too, you know. Perhaps you knew him. He was speaking to me, saying something, and I looked over and saw his happy face, his scarlet hair, the crimson scarf around his neck. I wasn't listening to him—all the same my brain ordered my words, and suddenly I knew what he was saying. _

"_Bertha, you've been through hell and back this past year. Darling, I know it's been hard. But can't you think that maybe things happen for a reason? Maybe my father and your aunt met because we were meant to be together. Don't you think that could be it, darling? Do you think?"_

_It was tactless. He didn't mean it to be. He is so rambly and talkative that he often says things he doesn't mean. All the same, I flinched. I said, coldly, "I think that saying someone had to die so that we could go to the cinema together is a rather cruel view of the situation, Michael." _

_He dropped my arm and looked out over the campus. "I didn't say that, Bertha. I didn't mean that." His eyes were large and sad, his mouth turned down. It hurt me to see him that way. I do love Michael, even if I don't _love_ him. _

_I couldn't help taking his arm again. "Michael," I said, but he wouldn't look at me. "Michael—forgive me. I just—remembered." _

_He turned to me and his eyes flashed. He said, "I know—you remembered him. As long as you remember him that way, I suppose there's no use in me giving you this." He rummaged in his pocket and came up with a small velvet box—not unlike the velvet box I had from you, once, Jordan. I opened it, of course, and there it was: a small, perfect round diamond, winking and blinking in the new spring light. _

"_Oh, Michael," I breathed. "Why did you show me this?"_

"_Because I love you and I want to marry you, you little fool!" he cried, his redhead's temper that is so much like mine rising to a fever pitch. A few people stopped to look at us, a few stopped to watch. They looked so expectant that I felt awful, handing the ring back to him. _

"_I can't," I whispered. "Michael, no." _

"_Then I am finished with you, Bertha!" he cried, and our audience cringed, and a flock of pigeons was startled up into the air. "Enough is enough! Do you see that I can't do it anymore? I take you out, whenever you want. I buy you things—whatever I think might make you happy! I listen to you, I ask you about yourself. Do you realize you never do the same to me? You don't ask me anything, and when I talk to you, your eyes get farway. You aren't listening. You aren't there!" _

_I was shaken, Jordan, I really was. I knew I'd been unfair to Michael, but I never full realized how poor a friend I'd been to him until I heard it in such plain terms. All the same, I was angry—I have a temper of my own. "Why do you want to marry me, then, if I'm so horrible?" I spit, bristling like a cat. "If I'm so bad you might save yourself the trouble of knowing me altogether." _

"_I can't do that!" Michael shouted. "I love you, you little witch!" _

_The crowd that had gathered drew in a collective breath at those words. Michael looked so funny, Jordan. I couldn't tell him that but I can tell you. His hair stood up all spiky, as though it had been shocked away from his head, and all of his freckles disappeared in the angry red flush that came over his face. All the same I was afraid. Not _of_ Michael—he would never hurt me—but that he would go away and leave me. And what would I do? He has been a lifeline to me these past months. I stepped forward and touched him, Jordan, on the wrist, gently. The way you would touch a butterfly, a baby bird. _

"_Oh, Bertha," he said, putting his arms around me, holding me to his chest. "Oh, darling. Won't you marry me? I can't ever be—him—but I can try to make you happy. I can love you, my whole life through." _

_Do you know what I told him, Jordan? Do you know what I said? Perhaps you wouldn't care, even if I could tell you. Jordan, _why did you write that letter_? I don't care what my father said to you—how could you do it? You can't have loved me the way I loved you or you couldn't have. It would have been physically impossible. Do you know, Jordan Gray, sometimes I hate you—hate you bitterly? I hate you now. I wish you were alive so I could write my hatred to you and make you feel as I have felt, knowing that you were so quick to throw in the towel, to give up on us! _

_I told him yes, Jordan! I am going to be Michael McTavish's wife, Jordan Gray! _

_What do you think of that? _


	35. Secrets and Vows

Bertha announced, quite calmly over breakfast one morning in March, that she would be marrying Michael McTavish, and said, in the same queer, dead tone, that she was very happy and hoped they would congratulate her. Aunt Cordy sat frozen at the news, her fork held halfway to her mouth. Mr. McTavish put down his fork entirely, and opened his mouth in shock. And then a broad smile split his face and he gave a whoop of joy, springing out of his seat faster than Bertha would have thought possible given his rather large personage. He swooped down on her, gathering her in his arms and crushing her to his chest.

"Rossie, Rossie, you know how to make an old man happy! Sure and I've dreamed of this day since I first saw you, little mite, all eyes and hair, in the lobby of the Sands hotel. Rossie, what a dressing down you gave me that day! Michael's too much my boy—I always thought he'd end up with a flibbertigibbet."

"_You_ did not end up with a flibbertigibbet, Archie," said Aunt Cordy, recovering her composure.

"No, Delia, but I had my share of them all the same. Oh, Rossie, what a party we'll have for you! And I'll call up my architect and have him start on a new house. Only the best for my boy—and my little girl." Uncle McTavish's face was pink with joy, his bright blue eyes brimming with tears. He blew his nose into a voluminous checked handkerchief, and brightened further. "A party!" he whooped, all fresh cheer. "We've got to have a party, the biggest party this town has ever seen."

"Law's a mercy," they heard Shulamite cry, from in the kitchen.

Uncle Archie went into consult with her, and Bertha was left alone with her aunt. Any doubts that she might have had as to marrying Michael were suddenly spackled over, as though with cement, and her thoughts were just as heavy. Uncle Archie had been so—happy, so proud. She must go through with it now, for his sake. For his and Michael's. And—for hers. She was not silly enough to recognize that she owed a great debt to Michael. He had given her life a purpose, he had loved her when she thought she was unloveable. He had saved her from a life of bitterness.

She felt suddenly shy. Aunt Cordy was peering at her so piercingly. Bertha lifted her hand to show Michael's diamond. "Isn't it lovely, Aunt Cordy?"

Aunt Cordy did not look at it. It _was_ a lovely ring, brilliant and round-cut, throwing little rainbows this way and that. But Aunt Cordy was looking at Bertha. "What are you doing?" she asked, bluntly, in a low voice. "What are you doing, Bertha?"

"What do you—mean, auntie? I'm marrying Michael. I—_we_—thought you'd be pleased."

"What about Jordan Gray?"

"What about Tim Gillis, Aunt Cordelia?" Bertha flashed. "Did you stop loving him? Have you, even though you married Uncle McTavish? Tell me true: there is a little, underneath, even yet. Isn't there? Isn't there?"

"I've had thirty years to come to terms with his death," Cordy said. "You've had six months to get over Jordan."

"I'll have the rest of my life to 'get over' him," Bertha snapped. "The rest of my life—with Michael. As Bertha McTavish." Bertha's eyes were bright, but her face was resolute. Cordelia McTavish wondered if this was _her_ doing. She had told the child not to close herself off to love; she had never expected for her to take it so literally! But she could tell from the set of the pointed chin it was no use to try to talk her out of it. She had the Blythe look about her: stubborn, willful. Something in Bertha's chin trembled and she also looked—young. As young a girl as she had looked the day she had chided her aunt coming home along the cow-path—as she had looked when they had pulled Dossie from the water.

"I can make him happy," Bertha said in a low voice. "I can't be happy myself—but I can try to make _him_ happy, auntie. He loves me. And I can _try_."

Cordelia bit back her words and stepped over to give her niece a kiss.

"God bless you, Birdie Wright," she said, wondering how this little Blythe chit, her brother and Diana Blythe's daughter, had become, over the years, her friend, her confidant. Her little darling.

"Thank you," said Bertha—bravely, Cordelia thought. The girl was brave. The strained look left Bertha's face and she dimpled. "Now, let's discuss strategy. I simply _won't_ have Uncle Archie throwing a huge gala for this. Not while there's a war on—I don't care how close we are to winning it. How shall we talk him out of it?"

xxxxxxxxxxxx

She called her Mother and Father, and they sent their congratulations, for they liked Michael McTavish. It was only that they sounded a little stunned by the news, a little disbelieving. Bertha chalked it up to a bad connection. She wrote Teddy, but when she got his reply she reminded herself that he did not know Michael, had never met him. Of course, he had not known Jordan, either. But Teddy would come around. It was only that it had happened so fast.

The only person—besides Michael, and Mr. McTavish—who really gave an _appropriate_ response, was Scarlett Kinnicut. "Oh, Birdie, how _fun_!" she cried, squeezing her arm. "We're both brides-to-be, now. When will you be married?"

"Sometime in the autumn." Far enough away that it felt like a lifetime.

"Oh, splendid, splendid!" Scarlett clapped her hands. "You're going to make a lovely bride, darling. All white lace and and red hair—all fire and ice."

"All barber pole, more like," said Bertha, doubtfully. "You _will_ come to my engagement party this weekend, won't you, 'Letty? Mother and Father can't get away and it's going to be Mr. McTavish's business associates and Michael's friends. I won't know a soul there besides Aunt Cordy if you and Joanie don't come."

"I'll be there with bells on, Bertha! I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Bertha dressed for her party in a bronze dress that set off her hair nicely. It was perhaps not what people would expect a bride-to-be to wear, but it reminded her of her grandmother Blythe's brown gloria—puffed sleeves!—that she remembered from stories as a child. Michael had sent over a cluster of creamy tea roses for her to wear in her hair. Bertha pinned them up, stepped into her shoes, and surveyed herself in the mirror. She _looked_ like Anne Shirley—she thought if her Grandfather Blythe could see her now he would approve. There was a moment when she thought her Grandmother would not have been so faithless as she. If Gilbert Blythe _had_ died of typhoid, would Anne have married Royal Gardiner only six months later? No—Grandmother was steadfast. She could not have done it.

"How can I, then?" Bertha asked herself. "How can I?"

The tea roses in her hair reminded her of Aunt Una. There was old family lore that Aunt Una had been madly in love with Walter, second of the Blythe sons. And Walter had died. And Aunt Una had married again. She loved Uncle Shirley and she had had three little daughters with him. And Una Blythe was the sweetest person Bertha knew.

"I am doing the right thing," she told herself. The girl in the mirror still looked doubtful. "I _am_," Bertha told her, and in a flash of childish agitation, stuck out her tongue, turned the nasty mirror-girl to the wall, and spun out of the room and down the stairs.

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Michael was so handsome in his tuxedo that Bertha nearly burst with pride when she saw him. She was so used to him being jolly Michael, friend Michael, that she had forgotten that he was rather dashing at times. Her heart beat like a hummingbird in her chest as she took his arm, and she clung to the feeling—_see? See? _Michael whispered in her ear, "Oh, darling," and the look in his eyes showed what he thought of her looks that night. They danced, and he could not stop smiling at her, and when Mr. McTavish took her by the arm to introduce her to some of his colleagues, Michael's eyes followed her from across the room. _He is proud of _me, she thought, in wonderment, and then she felt tender toward him. She thought that she would be as good a wife to him as she could. She owed him that.

The ballroom in Mr. McTavish's house was crowded with people, and after a while Bertha began to feel overheated, and slipped away to the verandah, lit up with Chinese lanterns and deserted. She stepped into the cool, dark garden and looked up at the sky. The stars didn't show so much in the city, but there was Polaris, the glittering beacon of the night. Once Jordan had written her to go out and look up at the north star, and think of him. Well, now she would look at it, but she wouldn't think of him. If she were going to be Michael's wife, she could not think of him anymore. It would not be fair.

There was a burst of laughter as two or three ladies—wives of Uncle McTavish's friends—came out onto the verandah. "Lovely party," one of them said, "Archie _does_ have a tendency to overdo things, but I think his new wife has tamed him a bit."

"Michael McTavish hasn't inherited _that_ from his father, at least. But he's been as unlucky in love as Archibald was, once. You remember how Rose Duncan's family wouldn't let her marry him, even after—even after. It's just like what happened with Michael and Emma Cleary."

"Except Michael didn't—didn't…"

"Well, of _course_, Agatha. Michael wouldn't do _that_."

"What did happen between Emma and Michael?" asked another voice, and Bertha knew she should step forward, and make herself known. To remain there in the shadows, listening, would be just as bad as eavesdropping. But she could not make herself do it, because she, too, wanted to know. Michael had never spoken to her about anybody named Emma.

One of the ladies on the porch cleared her throat. "Well, Emma and Michael were as good as engaged. But her parents didn't approve. Archie, you know. But the poor boy was ridiculous about her. They tried to elope—and were _caught out_. Emma's parents sent her away—some place in Maine, I think—and that was the end of that. Michael hasn't gotten over it. You can see it all over his face. I don't think he ever will be over it, no matter how much of a fuss he makes about this little redheaded Canadian girl."

"She's sweet, though, Martha."

"Oh, she's poised, all right, and she likes him, and a lot of marriages have worked on less. But think of their children! That _hair_. Goodness, it's cold out here. Let's go in." And they were gone.

It was getting chilly, but Bertha lingered in the garden, thinking about what she had just heard. So Michael had loved—and lost—as well. It was funny he had never mentioned it. But—perhaps he had. He had been right when he said that half the time she was not listening to him. She pinched herself, feeling horrid. She would listen to him from now on. She would make a point of it. And she could not help feeling that this brought them closer. This shared experience, the agony of loss. They could understand each other, then.

What if the women were right, and Michael still did love Emma? Bertha was surprised to find that the thought hurt her. She realized that she thought of Michael as belonging to her, even if she did not think of herself as belonging to him. Oh, how muddled up everything was! Michael should be with Emma, if he loved her. No matter what her parents said! And Bertha should be with…should be with…but that could never be!

"Birdie?" came Michael's voice. "What are you doing, hiding out here?" He crossed down the steps and went to her. "You're freezing," he said, taking off his jacket and throwing it over her arms. "Look at the stars," he said, tilting his head up and back. Bertha followed him. "There's the north star. Make a wish, Bertha." She closed her eyes and wished, wished with her whole heart.

When she opened her eyes, he was peering at her, tenderly. "What did you wish?" he asked.

"I can't tell you," she laughed. "Or else it won't come true!"

She had wished that this tangled mess that was her life would be straightened out. She had wished for Michael's happiness. And she had wished for Jordan back. It was foolish, she knew. But she could not help herself.

"Even if I cannot have him," she thought, clutching Michael's arm. "It would be enough for me to know he is alive in the world. That we are together under the same sky."


	36. Two Tempests in a Teapot

Aunt Cordy was a welcome addition to the Beacon Hill social circle. She was not a gossip or a fashion-plate, but she had a habit of listening to people, of making everybody feel welcome in her home. She gave parties and teas that were sumptuous, but not _too_ sumptuous for war-time. Within a few weeks of her arrival at 12 Water Street, she had a horde of friendly acquaintances, who had the habit of stopping by just to drop in, rapping on the door, calling, "Yoo-hoo! Cor-dee-lia?"

Since her engagement to Michael McTavish, Bertha had become something of a curiosity to these women, who may have once hoped Michael would take one of their own daughters. His father was—unconventional, that was true, but Michael was a handsome lad, and his wealth from both his father's and his mother's families made him a singularly eligible bachelor. Or _had_ made him. Many a society matron had dropped by 12 Water Street for the express purpose of gathering 'dirt' on his bride-to-be, and in the end was charmed by "Delia's" little niece. Nearly everyone who met her grew to like her, or at least admitted she was very sweet. People dropped by the house at regular intervals to chat with her, and hear about the upcoming nuptials.

Most of the time Bertha could pretend it was all an act, like a play. She was playing a starring role, that of bride-to-be. Everything that was happening was only rehearsal for the time where she and Michael would say 'I do' and exchange rings. And after that? The curtain would come down. When anybody said anything about what would come after, she had that sinking feeling again, that deep-water feeling. When the architect that Uncle Archie had hired asked what kind of wallpaper she wanted in 'her' dining room. "I suggest the ecru print, ma'am," he said. "That way, it will go with everything. You'll be able to keep it for years." And Bertha said, _yes, yes_, but it was with the same feeling as she had had as a child, decorating her doll's house with Dossie. _Somebody_ would live in the house going up at 16 Water Street. She was even able to believe, sometimes, that _she_ would live there.

It was Mrs. Westfield who threw the first spoke in her wheel. "I do suggest," she said kindly, over tea one afternoon, "That you consider going to Perkins' to buy the lingerie for your trousseau. They have the most enchanting negligees. Modest, but not prim. You tell her, Agatha."

"Oh, indeed," said Agatha Randolph. "Perkins' is just the place."

Bertha said, "I'll go there for a new pair of stockings. They're dearer than gold these days. But I shan't be needing anything like a negligee."

"Oh, but dear you must have one, at least one!" cried Mrs. Westfield.

"What would I need it for?"

The ladies all exchanged a glance. "For the _wedding night_," said Mrs. Randolph, significantly, and Bertha flushed to the tips of her hair so that her whole upper body was a contiguous, matching shade of red. "Lord, Amelia," Mrs. Randolph laughed. "Look at the girl!"

"Oh, do hush, Agatha," said Mrs. Westfield in a withering tone of voice. The ladies exchanged looks again. They all seemed to speak eloquently to one another with their eyes, and after a long moment, Mrs. Westfield turned to Bertha again. She said, haltingly, "Dear—I do not want to speak out of turn, or to embarrass you. But your mother _has_ spoken to you, of such things…?"

"What things?" asked Bertha, and then she said, "Oh," understanding. Wishing Aunt Cordy would come back from the kitchen wishing with her whole heart. "Y-e-es. Indeed. I—I only wasn't—thinking—that _that _was what you meant."

Her heart was hammering and she could not breathe. She had never been more embarrassed in her life. Oh, Mrs. Westfield _meant_ well! But the humiliation of it! When Aunt Cordy came back Bertha excused herself and ran up to her room. Oh, what a little idiot she was! They would all think her so provincial. Not knowing about…_that_.

Of _course_ she knew about it! Mother had explained it to her and Father had explained it to Teddy, long ago, and later they had compared notes and laughed over it, making faces with their noses scrunched up. She had grown up on a _farm_, for heaven's sake! Of course she knew what husbands and wives—did—were supposed to do—together. But she had never thought of it with herself in the context of wife, with _Michael McTavish_ in the context of husband! Bertha covered her face, humiliated. And frightened, very frightened. She had the feeling that if things were—right—she wouldn't be so afraid.

"Oh, I can't, I can't," she cried, in a sudden passion of certainty. "I can't do it. I can't marry him! What a mess I've made, what an absolute mess!"

But she would have to do it. She had promised.

She would keep her promise. Promises _meant _something to her.

Michael loved her, and she cared for him. She could not let him down.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

They quarreled; a nasty quarrel. Only two days after the disastrous tea. Michael had been hovering, pressing her to set a date, and Bertha, feeling like a devil, had said something to him about Emma Cleary. The look on his face when she said the name gave her a nasty sort of pleasure.

"Who have you been talking to, minx? How the _devil _did you hear of her?"

"Everyone knows you still love her!" Bertha flung at him. "I heard talk of it. And they laughed at _me, _Michael, I heard them. You've made a fool out of me. You should have told me."

"And you," he said darkly, "Have no right to talk. You're in love with a ghost. Don't deny it! Oh, I _wish_ there had never been such a person as Jordan Gray in the whole world! How I wish it! I wish the fellow had never been _born_!"

He had not denied it, either: that he still loved her, this _Emma_. And what he had said about Jordan! A terrible fury bubbled up in Bertha's chest, rising up to cloud her vision. "How _dare_ you say that?" she cried. "Jordan was twice the man of you, Michael McTavish. _He_ never would have said something so low."

"How do you know?" sneered Michael. "_You_ never met the man. You never _met_ him, Bertha! You don't know the first thing about what he was like, really. You exchanged letters, you were penpals, you fancied yourself in love. It's a very pretty daydream, Bertha, but _grow up_, please."

"Oh! If Emma Cleary loved you half as much as Jordan loved me, she wouldn't have let her parents stop her from marrying you."

"Emma had to be parted from me kicking and screaming. Mr. Gray, if I recall correctly, wrote you a very nice little letter with only the merest suggestion from your father. How much, then, did you say he loved _you_?"

They had been parked in Michael's car by the Charles river, and at this last remark, Bertha ripped her diamond from her hand and threw it at him. She stormed out, slamming the door so hard that the car rocked back and forth. She ran away, fully believing Michael would come after her. And Michael did an unforgiveable thing! There was the sound of a motor, and when Bertha looked back he had driven away, leaving her behind!

She waited and waited, but he did not come back. She had had to walk home, and it had started to rain. She was seething like a cat by the time she got there.

Michael came by the house the next day, but he should have known better, having a redhead's temper himself. The two engaged in a row, the magnitude of which sent Queen Bess and her kittens scurrying to safety, and made Shulamite, in the kitchen, exclaim, "Lawd A'mighty!" and fear for the condition of her cakes. Even Mr. McTavish, hearing them going at it, confessed to his Cordelia that perhaps the two were not as well-suited for one another as he had previously thought. He was hangdog at the thought that there would be no wedding, for he dearly loved weddings, and he dearly loved Michael, and Bertha. And judging by the shrieks and shouts coming from the verandah, they all doubted very much that there would be a wedding.

But their tempers passed, and Bertha came in, with her ring on her hand, as it always was, and sat down and ate her dinner very calmly, and then allowed Michael to take her dancing that night.

"Great balls of fire!" said Mr. McTavish, mopping his brow, to Queen Bess, who had crept out from under the sofa. Her tail was a bottlebrush, still. "Perhaps we shouldn't have built the new house so close to this one. If they carry on like that, nobody in the neighborhood will get a decent night's sleep ever again! Oh, what are they playing at, Bess? It's plain to see they're not matched. Separate, they're each the loveablest kiddie in the world—but together, it's cats and dogs. No offense, Bess. You're a queen among cats."

Bess preened, and licked her whiskers.

Mr. McTavish sighed. "There's going to be nothing but tears if they aren't stopped—but I'm not going to be the one to try to stop them. I'll make Cordy do it. Good heavens! To be caught out in a row like that! I wouldn't risk it for the world."

Queen Bess laid her ears back flat with her head, and swished her tail to show what she thought of the whole thing. She padded to a patch of sunlight, streaming through the glass, lay down, and fell asleep, as if to say she could not be too bothered with mortal's matters.


	37. The Hour She First Believed

"Tomorrow I'll be Mrs. George Wilkes!" cried Scarlett O'Hara Kinnicut with glee as she surveyed herself in the mirror. She was wearing the beautiful bridal veil that had belonged once to her great-grandmother, but her dress was not the sumptuous matching gown but a pair of polka-dotted pajamas. Scarlett arranged her dark curls and looked down at Bertha, who was sitting on the floor in pajamas of her own. Impulsively, Scarlett leapt down and kissed Bertha's face, copiously. "April 14, 1945," she intoned, like an announcer on a newsreel. "A date which shall truly live in infamy! At least among the O'Haras and the Wilkes families. Bertha, I've never told you, but do you realize tomorrow's nuptials have been almost a hundred years in the making?"

"What do you mean, Letty?"

"My great-grandmother," Scarlett said slowly. "Scarlett O'Hara the First—or Katie Scarlett O'Hara Hamilton Kennedy Bulter Darcy _Butler again_ was in love with Ashley Wilkes when she was my age. She almost lost everything because of it. She never married him—though you could see that she married enough for several people! Ashley wasn't her true love. Great-Granddad was, and they finally got it right in the end. But I believe Scarlett cared for Ashley, and he for her, in a different way, all the days of their lives. There was some bad blood between the families for years—still is, to some extent. But now I'm marrying George, and putting and end to all that. If Great-Grandma was here, she'd be pleased as punch to see it." Scarlett took her veil off and fiddled with it. "Bertha—George _is_ my true love. We're meant to be together—aren't we?"

Her green eyes were large and frightened, and Bertha reached over to clasp her friend's hand.

"How can you doubt it, darling?" she asked. "I've seen you and George together. He dotes on you. Don't be fearful. It's a big thing—but it's a happy thing. What would Great-Grandmama Scarlett say if she were here?"

"She'd say 'God's nightgown, child! _This _isn't anything to be afraid of! Think of facing the Yankee army with a squalling baby in your arms and a dead man's wallet in his drawers!' Grandmama Scarlett—I knew her, a bit, she lived to be quite aged—didn't tolerate cowardliness in anybody, animal, vegetable, mineral, or even child." Scarlett laughed, restored to good humor. "Oh, thank you for staying with me tonight, Birdie. Except for that brief jittery moment, I haven't been nervous about tomorrow at all. Is that a bad sign? Well, I know there's a greater chance I'd fall to pieces if you weren't here."

Bertha watched her friend and thought that if ever the world had wanted two people to be together, it was Scarlett Kinnicut and George Wilkes. Their story was like something out of a romance novel. Bertha smiled, herself, feeling only a small pang of regret. "Is everything ready for tomorrow, you goof? We're supposed to be going over things. Do you have your traveling suit pressed and hung up?"

"Check. It's in the garment bag in the wardrobe."

"Well, what about your shoes—your hat—your gloves?"

"Check, check, and check."

"Your bag?"

"Aye, aye, Captain Wright."

"Your vows!" Bertha cried triumphantly, thinking that she would finally trump her, but Scarlett rooted around on the dresser and found a small card.

"Right here," she laughed. "I'm going to recite Ruth's speech to Naomi. _Whither thou goest…"_

"_I will go_," Bertha finished. "I always thought when I was a child that I'd read those words my own wedding. Or else, _I am my beloved's, and my beloved is mine_."

"You and Michael will make the cutest couple," Scarlett said, tossing her veil onto the dresser-top and toppling back onto the bed. "Matching hair—matching freckles—like bookends. His and hers redheads, with a bunch of little kiddies to match."

Bertha smiled wanly. She had not been thinking of her wedding to Michael, though she felt she must start doing that, soon. They had still not set a date and he was growing sulky about it. They had rowed over it twice in the past week alone! She looked at the diamond on her hand, as clear and guileless as Michael himself. Oh, for the luster—the depth—of emerald! But she shook her head. There was no use thinking of things that couldn't be. It would hurt her; it was only a waste of time. She tried to turn her thoughts to what it was Scarlett was saying about the wedding presents that were accumulating downstairs in the foyer, but she found she could not hear her, not really.

"…and what do you think it was but a_nother_ teapot? This makes twelve. The way I think of it is that nobody in mine and George's family will have to buy a new teapot for the next twelve hundred years. Mrs. Rachel Gray sent her present over and it was just the right shape and Mother said, 'Oh, no, _not another one_,' but it was a silver coffeepot, instead. Though I suppose one could use it for tea. And Jordan Gray had included a book of poems. He can't come to the wedding of course, but it was nice of him to think of us all the sa—"

"Scarlett!" cried Bertha, hoarsely. "Did you just say—_Jordan_ _Gray_?"

"Well, of course I did," Scarlett said, looking at Bertha strangely. "What's it to you?"

"Oh, Scarlett—what do you mean? How can he have sent you anything? He's dead! Jordan Gray died in Holland last year."

Now Scarlett was looking at her as though she had two heads. "No, he didn't. What are you talking about? Jordan was _shot_ in Holland last year. He's been in hospital in England for the past six months, but he's home now. Just last week he arrived. Why would you think he was _dead_?"

"You wrote me," Bertha said, in a smallest voice—the smallest voice that Scarlett had ever heard the bold redheaded girl use. "In October of last year. You _wrote_ me, Scarlett—I read it over and over—that 'Eb Brown was shot at Boulougne and injured terribly and Jordan Gray was killed at Arnheim, in Holland.'"

Scarlett cried, "But I couldn't have written that! Jordan Gray was shot at _Arnheim_ and injured and _Eb Brown_ was killed at Boulougne. Back in September. You read it wrong, Bertha. You switched the names."

Bertha said, shakily, "I read that letter a thousand times, Scarlett. I was in love with Jordan Gray! We were—we were going to be married. Scarlett—_you wrote_ it wrong. _You _switched the names! Scarlett—I thought Jordan was _dead_. For months I thought it." She began to cry, silently, the tears streaming in rivers down her face.

Scarlett jumped up, her hands pulling at her curls. "Bertha—no! Oh, honey, I couldn't have—but I must have, I was in a tizzy over the wedding. Oh, my God! Honey, honey-darling, _Jordan Gray isn't dead_! My brother Rhett had a letter from him _last week_. He was shot in the leg or arm or something but he's going to be fine now, he's home and everything. And you thought… Oh, I'm going to The Bad Place Below for this! It's the worst thing I've ever done. I'm damned to perdition for eternity." Scarlett was crying, now, too. "You loved him—he was that fellow you were always writing to—and I told you he was _dead_." She looked horrified.

"And now you've told me he's alive," wept Bertha, "And it is as though I've begun to live again. Oh, Letty, Letty, I think I know how everybody will feel on the Last Day, when they are raised up. 'I once was lost'—but now _he's_ found. Oh, Scarlett, Scarlett—_Jordan is alive_!"

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A/N: The parts about Scarlett Kinnicut's history are taken from my GWTW fic, Tomorrow. These are two of my faves and I wanted to combine them in some way.


	38. On the Other Side of the Divide

"Bertha? Bertha? Where are you going?"—for Bertha had jumped up, and was rooting in Scarlett's closet for her coat. She found it and shrugged her arms into it, and pushed her feet into slippers that Aunt Cordy had knitted for her last Christmas. Horrid, scratchy, bright red things, of worsted woolen yarn—and yet today, on this day of all days, they could have been golden, gossamer slippers, made for dancing.

She threw her arms around Scarlett again. "Thank you, darling," she whispered. Scarlett cried, "But _Birdie_…" But Bertha was gone, gone out into the night.

For the first few blocks, Bertha's joy buoyed her up, and her feet had wings. She sang as she ran through the dark streets, earning a few queer looks from the passersby. She sang _Ich bin vergnügt mit meinem Glücke_—'I am content in my good fortune'—and she _meant_ every word of it. Jordan was alive! He was alive!

And she would go to him. Right now.

She felt she knew how Grandmother Blythe must have felt when she heard her beloved Gilbert had 'got de turn.'

Jordan was alive and she, Bertha, would go to him, if she could only remember where he lived! She had been there once before, but it was so dark now—so late—and all these Boston houses looked the same. The streets were crowded with them, one after the other. Well, she remembered there was a two in the address. Two—something. Maybe a one. And she was sure it had been on Charles street. Or Chester. Or Chestnut! Something with a C!

Well, she would just have to go back to Scarlett and ask. But then Bertha stopped, stricken by a thought. What would she say to Jordan when she saw him? She tried to imagine it out in her head—hammering on the door, once she _found_ the place. Being let in, by Jordan's mother, her mouth disapproving. Or perhaps—perhaps even being told to come back another time. In a sharp, reproachful voice. Oh, oh, _not _being led up the stairs to him! Not getting to see him at all? Could she bear it?

Only—what if she did get to see him—and what if he greeted her coolly. Even coldly. Oh—he _might_. It was true that the note he'd written had been at her father's request. But something that Michael had said haunted her. _Mr. Gray, as I recall, wrote you a very nice little letter with only the merest suggestion from your father. How much, then, do you say he loved you? _He had been angry when he'd said it—but it made a chilling sense to Bertha now. Jordan could not love her very much if he would do a thing like that. Could he? And anyway, she hadn't written back to try to change his mind. Suppose Jordan had been waiting for her to write and tell him no, that she loved him anyway, that she wouldn't give him up? And she never had.

Suppose Jordan thought _she_ did not love _him_?

Then when she had sent back Grand's ring, he had written of his own volition and he had been so angry with her. Suppose he still was?

He had been through so much. He had been _shot_. Her heart turned over in her chest. Badly enough to be sent home. What if he were crippled? She would not care. She wouldn't! But—Scarlett said he'd been in hospital—six months. Suppose he had—amnesia, like those horrible stories she always heard about? What if she should go to him—and he should not know her?

"Oh, Jordan," she whispered, holding her head. "Jordan, Jordan, no."

Oh, what a ridiculous idea, that she could just go to him—in her _pajamas_!—in the middle of the night, after all this time had passed. Wearing another man's ring—engaged to another man!

"Oh, God," she moaned. "I can't—I can't. What am I thinking?"

They didn't even know each other. She must not forget that. They had poured their souls out in letters, but they had never even exchanged pictures. It was as Michael said: they had never even met.

How presumptuous to think that she and Jordan were anything like Grandfather and Grandmother Blythe, who had known each other—_really_ loved each other—for years.

Bertha began to cry. She sat down on the curb and wondered what she should do? Presently a taxi-cab passed, and slowed, and stopped. The driver rolled down his window and called to her.

"Hey, missy! It's too late for you to be out. You lost? You know where you're going?"

"No, not lost," said Bertha, standing shakily. "And I know just where I'm going. Home—I'm going home."

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Aunt Cordy was sitting up in the parlour with a book, Queen Bess curled up on her lap. She had passed an enjoyable evening, sitting downstairs with a cup of tea while upstairs Archie snored fit to beat the band. Or at least: Cordelia McTavish _had been_ enjoying her evening, until that moment when Bertha appeared, looking wretched, in a yellow raincoat with her striped pajamas and bedroom slippers showing underneath. "What on earth!" Cordy cried, shunting Bess off of her lap. "Bertha, what has happened? Have you and Scarlett quarreled?"

"Jordan Gray is alive," the girl said, all wide, tortured eyes and Cordy immediately wondered if her niece had finally gone mad. Grief could do that to a person. Well, mad or not mad, she should have her a chance to speak. Cordy led her to the sofa and sat her down, and went to the kitchen to make tea. While she measure the leaves into the boiling water, while she arranged everything neatly on a tray, her hands shook. Bertha had said—Jordan _alive_? She felt a faint hope stirring in her breast, but quashed it. It was ridiculous, at her age! Somebody should play the adult here! The girl was confused, and Cordy must bring her round to an even keel. She came out with her tea and made Bertha drink one sugary cup, from brim to bottom, before she allowed her to speak. When Bertha set her empty cup back on its saucer, Cordy was feeling more composed herself.

She said, "Tell me, child—what is this about Jordan Gray?"

Bertha's stilted story came out, piece by piece. And at the end of it, there was new resolve in her eyes. And even Anne Cordelia Wright McTavish believed.

Bertha gave a long shuddering sigh. "I can't go to him now," she said. "I see that. I love him still—but there are loose ends I must tie up before I can tell him that I do. I—I must tell Michael I can't marry him…" She writhed, miserable. "It wouldn't be fair, otherwise. To either of them. And Scarlett said he'd been ill. I'll give it a little time. A week—or two. I'll write to him or something. And then I'll see if he writes back."

"Hang all that, child!" Cordy said—most un-Cordyishly. "Go to him, go to him now!"

Bertha's eyes gleamed for a moment. But then her mouth quirked up, and she shook her head.

"I rushed into something before," she said. "And what a mess I've made of that! Michael is going to hate me forever for what I'm about to do to him. And _with good reason_.I won't mess things up with Jordan that way, auntie. I won't. I can't risk it." She was silent a moment, and then she turned to the dark window panes, as if she were searching for the starry sky outside of them.

"I once said it would be enough to know he is alive and well," Bertha murmured. "To know that he is in the world with me. And that we are together again, under the same sky." She touched her fingers to the pane, as though she were touching her beloved's face. When she turned back, her face was lit with a smile, as though a candle of hope and love burned away at the center of her being. "Oh, Aunt Cordy, Aunt Cordy! Jordan is _alive_!" 

"Well, thank the Lord," said Aunt Cordy, feeling her sensible self again. "And now take off that raincoat and have some warm milk, and go to bed, like a good girl. You're overtired, and you need a good night's rest. For what will come tomorrow," she murmured under her breath. Thinking of Michael McTavish.

Bertha kissed her, and went into the kitchen for her milk. And Cordy pressed her hands together and offered up a hasty prayer.

"Lord above, You had better make things work for her. I'm not in the habit of giving You orders, so I suppose You'll forgive me it this once. But it must work, it must work out. I don't know how much more disappointment the child can take." Cordy wiped away the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. "And You _can_ do it, if You wish. I know You can! I have a faith that moves mountains. And so does Bertha. She never gave up on him, not really."

A hasty amen, another wipe of her hand across her eyes. Then Cordy leaned down to retrieve the sleeping Bess, and climbed the stairs to her own room, feeling as though she had left things in the hands of a Higher Power, and with little doubt that it would come together rightly in the end.


	39. Beginnings and Endings

Bertha fully intended to tell Michael right away that she could not marry him, but things started happening, one after the other, and she ended up not having the chance for about a week. First, there was Scarlett's wedding to be gotten through. She stood in her green bridesmaid's dress as Scarlett Kinnicut became Scarlett Wilkes, and as the happy bride leaned in to kiss her husband, to seal the bond between them, Bertha caught, through a blur of tears, Michael's face, in the sea of people. He was the only one with his eyes not on the bride and groom. Michael watched Bertha as though they were alone in the room, and as though he did not care if anybody saw. He watched her intently, as though he were looking to see something particular in her face. And Bertha realized she could not tell him, not on Scarlett's happy day. She would have to save it for some other time.

She _meant_ to tell him the next day, but Michael was conspicuously absent from 12 Water Street. He was busy with his job at the bank, something about a takeover by another bank. Bertha did not understand the corporate lingo he threw about so casually. When she finally saw him, after an absence of three days, he seemed preoccupied, and could not look at her straight in the eye. She wondered about it, and in the safety of her room, she fretted.

"He's not himself," she murmured, as she paced the floor, up and down, up and down, a march of nerves. "He is worried about _something_—he almost looks guilty. I can't tell him now. I _can't_. I'll have to wait until he is more himself again."

She looked longingly at her writing desk, where a sheet of paper and pen were laid in waiting. She could not tell Michael, and she could not write Jordan until she had told him. She was determined that she should not write Jordan until she was free—perfectly free.

Two more days passed, and Bertha was starting to feel wild from waiting, haggard with it. "I shall tell him tomorrow," she vowed, one Saturday night. "I don't care if he's still not himself. He _deserves_ to know."

She went to the window and looked out. Aunt Cordy had worked wonders in Mr. McTavish's jungly garden. A sheaf of new May-flowers bloomed against the low stone wall. They were planted from the seeds of Island May-flowers, and Bertha was glad to see them. What would May be without them? There was a little rose bush, planted from a slip lovingly transported. Bertha knew that it had been taken from the rosebushes in Hester Gray's dear garden. She kissed her fingers to it.

"Tomorrow," she promised the one white rose that was out, like a star of morning. "Tomorrow, it will be done."

But the next morning, Bertha woke to the sound of bells, and when she went down to see what was the matter, Uncle Archie caught her up in his arms, and told her in a voice heavy with tears, that the war in Europe was over.

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There were parties and dances throughout the city, and Bertha knew that the festivities in Boston were only a small part of the worldwide celebration of the news. All up and down the eastern coast, all over the United States, and throughout her homeland of Canada, people were flooding into churches and chapels to give thanks. Others were taking to the streets, to show the joy in their hearts in a different way. The bells rang all afternoon, and even Aunt Cordy set down her knitting and wept into her apron out of sheer relief.

"Teddy will be coming home," she said. "And Fred's Georgie. And all the boys. Oh, Bertha, I wish Dorothy had lived to see this day."

"I do, too," Bertha whispered. "Her loving little faithful heart would have overflowed with feeling today. But she _is_ a part of it, Aunty. Wherever Doss is now, in whatever form, her spirit is with us, and is rejoicing, too."

"I am going to ring up Green Gables, and Orchard Slope," said Aunt Cordelia, wiping her eyes. "And make sure she's heard the news. Canadian radio is always a little behind. That's one thing you can say for the Yankees—they always seem to know first when something has happened."

"You talk like a Yankee yourself, Aunt Cordy! To think that I should live to see the day!"

Bertha spoke to her parents, hearing the joy in their voices. She wished with her whole heart that she was at Green Gables today. Those walls had held so many of her memories in the last six years—joy at little victories, and big ones, and despair over dozens of defeats, the flush of first love, the sorrow at parting, and through it all, hope. They had echoed with laughter of those who had gone, and would not be coming back. They had heard tears over ones who _would_ be coming back. "I love you, Mother, Dad," Bertha said, and she meant it. Throughout it all, Mum and Dad had certainly been there for her.

Michael took her to a Victory Dance at the pavilion by the river that night, and grinned at her, as he had in the old days. Bertha found that night that she did love Michael McTavish. Perhaps not in the same sweet way she loved Jordan Gray. But she was fond of him. She cared for him. He had been a good friend to her, at a time when she had needed a friend. She hoped very much that they could be good friends, always. She would try to make it so.

Michael drove her home through the dark, raucous streets, but at the last moment, he turned, and they drove along the river for a while. The April rains had run out and it was spring—truly spring. Michael parked by the water very near the spot they had had such an awful fight, all those weeks ago. He turned the motor off and the two of them sat, looking out over the water.

"Michael," she said. She had not meant to tell him tonight. But tonight was the beginning of a new life, a new world. She must start it in the right way. "Michael," she said, and her voice broke with feeling. He looked at her, questioningly, and saw in her wide, sad eyes the question answered. His shoulders slumped and he looked away.

"You've found out about Jordan Gray," he said, in a queer voice that did not sound like _Michael_ at all. "That he is alive. You've heard of it. Haven't you?"

Bertha's thoughts were a jumble. "Yes," she said. "But—how did _you_?"

Michael smiled—a sad smile. "I heard it in passing. At Scarlett's wedding. I thought it might not be true. I kept telling myself over and over that I'd heard wrong—Geordie Clay, or something. But I knew, Bertha. And—I kept it to myself. It was a wicked thing to do, but—I didn't want to lose you. But it about killed me. I don't like keeping secrets from you. And I knew you'd hear it somehow and hate me when you found out I knew it, and hadn't told. It was a torture to me."

"And—that's why—you seemed so…"

"So guilty? I was. Brimming over with it. When did you hear it, Bertha?"

"Scarlett told me the night before the wedding."

"Ah." He smiled again. "I thought that maybe you'd heard it then. You were—different, at the wedding. I'd never seen you that way before." His eyes were swimming with tears, and Bertha's heart went out to him. "Happy," Michael said. "You were happy. I couldn't make you look that way. It's—over, isn't it? You're calling it off?"

Now Bertha did touch him. She laid her hand against his cheek. "Yes," she said. "I can't marry you when I am loving him so hard. But Michael—I would have liked to love you. If I could. And there is some girl out there who _will_. One day you'll be glad to be rid of me."

He laughed, a real laugh. "You have been rather short-tempered," he said, "I suppose I'll be glad to be rid of that."

"_Me, _short-tempered? I never met anybody as short-tempered as _you_."

They both laughed.

"Michael—we can stay friends?"

"We'll have to, for Dad's sake."

"Oh!" Bertha fl

ushed, "He'll be so upset at me for this."

Michael laughed. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. "Bird," he said. "After that spectacular row we had, Dad thinks that our marriage would be only a slightly better idea than Hitler's idea to invade Poland."

Bertha laughed, too.

Michael wouldn't take the ring, though. "Keep it," he said. "I want you to have it. I chose it for you. I want you to have it to remember me by."

Bertha shook her head, adamant. "Rings keep getting me in trouble," she said, lightly. "My next fiancé will have to get me a necklace, or a bracelet, or something. I have heaps of memories to remember you by, Michael McTavish, and I'm going to be making new ones for the rest of my life."

"What will I do now?" he wondered. "Without you?"

Bertha dimpled. "You could write to Emma Cleary," she said. "And pick things up where you left off."

"And what will you do with Jordan?"

"I am going to write to him," Bertha said, resolutely. "And tell him I love him just as much as ever."

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She tried to write just what she had said, but the words would not arrange themselves properly on the page. She used up an entire box of stationery, trying to put her thoughts to paper. June passed, it was well into July. And then Bertha felt a cold fear. She had left it too long. She had left it too long! Even if she managed to write to Jordan now, there would always be a slight hesitancy about things because she had left it too long! He would think she had not been sure of him. Perhaps he had already moved on.

She sat at her desk as July threatened with August. "Write," she commanded her hand. "Write!"

But it would not obey.


	40. A Morning in Town

One morning in the third week of August, 1945, Bertha rose early and went down to a bookstore near Harvard university, where she spent a half-hour browsing new titles. She had lunch in a little café, and spent an hour looking into shop windows. When she was tired and beginning to be sunburned, she hopped aboard the city bus to go home. She stared out the window, and watched the world go by.

And suddenly, people began to spill out of houses, shops, restaurants. Somewhere a bell began to toll. There was the sound of laughter, whooping, people so thick in the streets that the bus could not go on. "What is it?" Bertha asked the soldier who had taken the seat across from her. "What has happened?"

The handsome young man smiled, and told her that the war was over.

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The passengers streamed off of the bus, eager to join the crowd of revellers. Bertha found herself caught up in the crowd almost before her feet touched the ground. She was afraid of being trampled underfoot—she reached out and grabbed the arm of the man on the bus. He smiled down at her and shouted something she could not hear. All the world was like a party! The bells of the churches were jangling, car horns blaring, people openly laughing, crying, shouting. An old man threw his cane down and danced a jig. A young woman sat on a park bench, weeping into her hands. She lifted her face from them and her face was lit up with a smile.

A sailor, his face covered in lipstick prints of every hue of the rainbow, reached out for Bertha with a lascivious look in his eye. She blew him a kiss, and clung to the arm of her companion for safety. His other arm, she noticed, was in a sling, and she was careful not to cling too tight. "It's like New Years' Eve!" she shouted at him, over the din.

"It's like fifty New Years' Eves rolled into one!" he shouted back. "Come on!"

Together, they made their way through the crowd that had gathered on the Common and was rapidly increasing in size. Bertha held tight to the soldier's arm. She didn't know him from Adam but it didn't seem to matter. There was something race-of-Josephy about his eyes. But then, everybody seemed race-of-Josephy on a day like today!

"The war is _over_!" she cried, feeling happy to the tips of her toes.

Her new friend smiled, grabbed her hand with his good one. They ran through the Common and turned down a narrow cobblestone streets. Car horns blared. A crowd of people had stopped to listen to the radio on the stoop of a rowhouse. A little boy of about four or five years old stood by himself, sobbing.

"Is this the end of the world?" he cried, as Bertha knelt to wipe his tears.

"No," said the soldier kindly. "It's the beginning of it."

The little boy looked up and gave a sharp salute. "I been practicin,'" he admitted. "My pop's in the Navy, you know. When I see him again I'm going to salute just like that."

"He'll be pleased," said Bertha's friend. "You do an awful good job of it."

They helped the boy find his mother and kissed and congratulated her. She was weeping, too, but in a happy way. The four of them walked a little ways together until Bertha and the soldier stopped to buy popcorn from a street vendor. Bertha had forgotten her bag on the bus, in all her excitement—but the nice young man paid for her. "Thanks," she smiled. He really was a nice-looking fellow. Tall and dark-haired, with a strong chin, and kind, intelligent eyes. He smiled back at her.

"What do you feel like doing now?" he asked. "There's sure to be dancing at the pavilion down by the water."

"At the risk of sounding like a country girl—which I am," Bertha laughed, "I feel just like going to church."

An admiring light flashed in the soldier's dark eyes. "Come on, then," he said, approvingly.

They walked, and presently they came to Christ Church, a stone oasis in the middle of the hullabaloo. It was crowded full of people, but the mood inside was of quiet gratitude. The bell tolled overhead, keeping things from seeming too still. Bertha knelt and whispered a prayer; she gave thanks, more sincerely than she ever had. Had she ever really prayed before? She had certainly never been so _prayerful. _She thanked God that Teddy and Gilly and Walt and Georgie had gotten though it safely, and would be coming home. That all the boys would be coming home. "Thank you, God," she whispered. "There were times when I doubted You, but I was wrong, wrong, wrong."

The soldier was waiting in the garden when she came out and she was glad to see him.

"I feel shiny and new—" Bertha said, and he finished: "Like a new penny."

"That's _just_ what I was going to say!"

"My grandmother used to say it to me when I was small. I believe it's how the Catholics are supposed to feel after Confession. Look, here's the river. Oh—see the people on the boats! They're waving. Let's wave back!"

They waved with all their might and main. When Bertha's friend had tired out his good arm they walked. It was quieter here down by the water, shady. They found a bench and sat and talked for what seemed like ages. How strange it was to pour your heart out to somebody you'd never met. And yet it seemed so natural. Perhaps it was the day. She told him all about Doss, and how happy she would have been today. About Teddy, who would be coming home. She wept at the thought being able to see her twin, her very own Teddy—perhaps in a matter of weeks, months! The soldier put his hand on her shoulder, comfortingly.

He told Bertha his own story. He'd been in the army, had only been home a little while. He'd been injured over in Europe, shot through the shoulder. He hadn't lost the arm, but he might not be able to use it again. There was a girl…the soldier grew a little bashful. There was a girl he had known who didn't know about it yet. His arm, he meant. He hadn't written to her in a long time. He wasn't sure if she even was his girl anymore; or how she would take it. Perhaps, he said, looking down at his sling, she would not want him anymore. Bertha bristled with indignation.

"If she's worth her salt she'll be prouder of you with one arm, than of any other man who had three!" Bertha cried, and the soldier smiled.

"What a loyal little heart you have," he said. "Does it belong to anybody in particular?"

"Well," Bertha said. "There is a fellow. But—I haven't heard from him in a while." The man's eyes turned sympathetic. "Oh, he's alive!" she told him. "It's only that—we grew apart, I suppose. I—I don't know if he's still _my_ fellow. I don't know if he ever was."

"It happens that way," the man sighed. "The growing apart part. But," he finished, appreciatively, "I don't see how anyone in their right mind could resist you."

Bertha felt suddenly shy. What would Aunt Cordy say, if she could see her right now, being so openly appreciated by a man—a stranger—Aunt Cordy! Bertha held on to her hat and stood up. She must be getting home to Aunt Cordy and Uncle Archie; they would be worried over her. "I'd better be getting home," she said to her new friend—yes, her _friend_!—a little regretfully. More than a little. She would have liked to stay and talk with him longer. She could have stayed and talked to him all day.

"I'm awfully glad to have met you," she told him, on impulse. "I'll always remember you when I remember this day."

The soldier said, "Perhaps we'll meet again sometime." But he did not seem to be in a hurry to make sure they did. He seemed to know, instinctually, that their meeting today had been a lucky thing, a thing of chance, and that if it was meant to be, they would meet again. It couldn't be forced. It was extremely race-of-Josephy of him but—a little sad. Bertha thought that she liked her soldier very much. If only he didn't have a girl—if she didn't have Jordan. She would like very much to see him again.

She said, "I'll be looking out for you, wherever I go."

"And I, you. I'll always remember your little face. Like a pansy—a little cat's face."

She laughed. "Usually it's my hair that people remember."

"I'll remember that, too. It's splendid hair. Reminds me of one of Titian's beauties." He reached out and tweaked a curl.

She said, "It really was very nice to me you, Mr…I don't even know your name! Oh, how funny! But it didn't seem to matter a whit. It seems rather odd to go away without introducing myself, though that would spoil the mood. But I want you to remember me. I'm Bertha—Bertha Wright."

She held out her hand for him to shake, but the soldier's face had changed. He leapt to his feet, and gripped her arm with his good one. She was startled by the look in his eyes. He looked—almost _angry_. His eyes blazed with a strange fire and she shrank back, almost afraid.

"What kind of trick is this?" he asked her, darkly. "What do you mean by saying that?"

"I—I don't know what _you_ mean. It's my name."

"Bertha Wright—Bertha Wright? Bertha Wright of Green Gables, Avonlea, Canada?"

"How did you _know_ that?" she cried. "Who—who are you?"

"Bertha," he said, and now the soldier's dark eyes were aflame. "Bertha—_I'm Jordan Gray_."


	41. At Long Last!

A/N: I started this story years ago because I wanted to write more about Anne's grandchildren. I began this story without any idea of what would happen outside of a long distance friendship that grew into a romantic relationship. I had already written about Cecilia and found that I couldn't get too worked up with Bertha. But over the course of writing this fic, I've grown to love Bertha best of all my characters, and it is mostly because of all the wonderful reviews I've gotten from all you lovely people! It hurts me to finish this story because I want it to go on and on, but you guys deserve an ending, you've waited patiently enough. Thanks to everybody who inspired me to write, especially Misha, r6144, Emily-in-the-glass, Elouise82, Gufa, Joy Blythe, and especially Elizabeth, who inspired me to get up and finish this. I am racking my brain trying to think of a sequel I can write, because it hurts me to let these characters go. I'll let you guys know if I think of anything at all, and as always, thanks for reading. Now, on to the denouement!

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Jordan Gray, Bertha wanted to say. What a coincidence! I know a man named that. How strange, that you should be called it, too. It is what she _wanted_ to say. And then the wheels and gears of her mind whirled and shifted and clicked into place. She looked up into Jordan's handsome face, square-jawed, sunburned, full-lipped, and _handsome_, and her heart beat hard and fast in her chest, for she _knew_ him. This was Jordan Gray—_her_ Jordan! After all of the years, all of the distance, they were finally face to face for the first time. Bertha gave a little cry, and Jordan's good arm went tight around her waist. He held her close and he lowered his face to hers.

And kissed her, of course. It would hardly have suited otherwise. He did not need to ask. It what was Bertha had been wanting for so long! All of the pain and sorrow and doubt and fear of the horrible past year fell away at the touch of Jordan's lips to hers. He kissed her again, again. She hated to break away, to end it, but she must, because she wanted to see his dear, darling, wonderful face again.

Bertha touched his face, and felt his skin—Jordan's face, Jordan's skin. What a fine, thoughtful sort of face he had! It was just as she had wanted it to be, it was nothing like she had expected. And yet: it was _Jordan_. Her fingers touched the dark brown curls. Their were tears in his eyes as there were tears in her eyes.

"It's you," she said. "Oh, Jordan, Jordan, at long last—it's you."

"It's _you_," Jordan breathed, looking at her just as intently as she was studying him. As though he wanted to memorize her, the placement of each golden freckle on the milky skin. "Bertha—you don't know how I dreamed of this moment. I pictured you so clearly in my head that I had a perfect certainty of what you'd look like. And now you're here."

"And do I like what you expected?"

"No," he said, and laughed, his eyes crinkling up in a funny way that reminded her of Grandfather Blythe.

Bertha held her hands to her cheeks, embarrassed. "I'm worse-looking, aren't I? Some people just don't like red hair."

"Bertha," said Jordan Gray, tipping her chin up with his finger and looking deep into her eyes, "You are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

She began to cry, then. She could not help it. She covered her eyes with her hands and her body shook with emotion. Jordan's held her tight but he could not stop her shaking. His eyes were large and wretched, and his mouth was a thin, guilty line.

"You hate me," he murmured. "I treated you abominably. I don't blame you for hating me."

"No—Jordan—no," Bertha wept. "Jordan, I _love_ you."

"You can't love me as I love _you_, darling. Bertha, I never stopped. Never for a minute. Never for a second. Do you believe me—even after everything that's happened?"

"Yes," she said, and she did believe. "Jordan—yes."

They made their way back toward the water, arm-in-arm. Presently they came to a grassy spot, in the shade of a large willow, quite secluded from the rest of the city. It was an Avonlea-ish sort of place—the rest of her life Bertha would come across such places, and always she would think of _home_. They sat, their backs against the rough bark. Jordan told her something of what he had been feeling when he had written that letter—that horrid letter, that had taken her breath away and broken her heart.

"I wanted to marry you, Bertha. I _did_! I wrote your father for permission and everything. And he wrote—back—that he wouldn't give it. He wrote back that if I loved you as much as I said I did, I would wait. That if we were engaged and…and anything should happen to me, it would kill you. That already you were too in love with me, and after Dorothy, your health was fragile. He was thinking of your best interests, Bertha, and I agreed with him. I never should have done it—but in the middle of such horror as war, you can't think straight. It made perfect sense to me at the time. So I wrote to you, and the moment I had mailed that awful, cold letter I knew it was a mistake. But I had made your father a promise, and I couldn't go back on it."

"You didn't—you didn't _mean_ any of it, even a little?"

Jordan's gentle eyes flamed gold. "Not a whit of it. It couldn't have been further from the truth."

He talked a little of the war, and Bertha watched him as he spoke. Here was Jordan—right in front of her! Talking to her! Here was Jordan outside of paper and pen, in the flesh speaking so mildly of things that would make another man tremble in his boots. But then he spoke of the time he had been shot, and his face grew very pale and drawn. It had been in Holland—he hadn't felt any pain—only a great deep coldness and a feeling of sinking down, down. He remembered a medic saying _Lieutenant, look at me _and _through the artery_, and _Lieutenant Gray, look at me_! But after that he didn't remember anything except that he had closed his eyes a moment and when he opened them he was at home in Boston, in the lovely garden of his mother's house. There was the sound of a piano through the open glass doors, and a rich, clear voice singing, and then the music had stopped, and a woman's voice had said, as clearly as a bell: "Jordan? Jordan Gray?"

"It was you," Jordan said. "It was _you_ singing, and calling to me, Bertha."

He had wanted to turn his head and drink her in—the sight of her—and then he had opened his eyes, and everything was cold and bright—over-bright—and harsh. And there was pain, like an animal with teeth and claws. He had closed his eyes again and the next thing he knew he was in the hospital in England, and it was some days later. He had almost died of loss of blood and he could not feel his left arm. As soon as he was able to speak, he had asked for a pen and paper, but when he got them he hadn't been able to write a word. It was as though his mind was paralyzed, as well as his arm. He stared and stared at the page. He had wanted to write to Bertha, but he had not known what to say.

"I told you I didn't love you," Jordan said. "And I thought you might not want me back. And I thought—you would not want a man who had treated you so badly. A crippled man, to boot."

Bertha thought of his dear face—already dear to her!—blanched white against the hospital sheets, his useless arm hanging by his side, his heart heavy with the thought that he might not be loved. She bent her lips to his sling and kissed the tips of his fingertips.

She said, "It only matters to me that you are alive, and here! I'd take you if you had no arms at all. It's _you_ I love: your wit, your thoughtfulness, the dear, sweet, funny way you have of looking at the world. It's all that—and your heart, too, darling."

"You don't love me for my looks?" he cried, mock-offended, and Bertha flamed crimson to the roots of her hair.

"Your looks are very—adeuqate," she murmured, and he laughed. So did Bertha, but then she grew solemn again. "Oh, Jordan, I wish I'd been _there_ for you, when it happened. Well, not there. But I wish we'd been together in spirit—I wish I could have sent my love to you, and wrapped you in it."

He said, "You _did_, though you didn't know it. Loving you was meat and drink to me, Bertha. The thought of you is what got me through. I—I hadn't heard from you, and I hadn't written to you, but you were with me, nonetheless."

She told him a little of her own experience, in the year that they had spent 'apart.' How she had had that letter from Scarlett, saying he was dead. How she had thought he was. He closed his eyes at the thought of her agony, and gripped her neck, pressed his forehead to hers. She told him about her engagement to Michael, in halting tones, and watched his eyes flash with jealousy. Bertha told Jordan of the great shock of joy that had come into her heart at the news he was alive. "God forgive me for not going to you sooner, Jordan Gray," she said.

"God is good," said Jordan easily. "He has pity on us poor mortals, for we have such a tendency to mess things up. But He has made everything right for us in the end."

"Yes—and those bad times feel very far away now you are here."

Bertha laughed—it was well into afternoon now. Aunt Cordy would be beside herself wondering what had happened to her. That she had been lost or trampled or molested, somehow. "Jordan, I must go home," she said, more than a little regretfully. "I hate to have to leave you—even for a little while."

"You don't have to," he said. "Bertha—won't you let me take you home?"

"Yes—if you'd like to come with me by taxi back to Water Street."

"Let's not go to Water Street," Jordan said. "Let me take you home, Birdie—really home, to Green Gables. I want to be with you in Avonlea."


	42. In the Garden of Hester Gray

What a delicious madness came over them! They shouldn't have done it—and yet it seemed perfectly reasonable, on such a day, to take a taxi to the depot, instead. To buy two train tickets, to run hand in hand as the conductor called, "All aboard!" Bertha laughed, feeling as though she had lost her head. She did not have anything but the clothes she was wearing. She had not told anybody where she was going! She _must_ have lost her head, she must have! She looked over at Jordan, and thought that if she had lost her head, she had found her heart instead.

The train carried them northward, and they sat together in an empty compartment and talked. She wanted to know everything about Jordan, everything that had ever happened to him, everything he had ever thought or felt or experienced. She hated to have to stop listening to him and answer the questions he put to her—for he wanted to know everything, too. In a few hours, they had not run out of things to say to one another, but they had talked themselves hoarse. It was so much easier to kiss, instead of talk. Bertha fell asleep with her head on Jordan's shoulder, lulled by the rocking of the car.

When she awoke it was dark and he was gone. Oh! Her heart turned over. Where had he gone? An icy, ridiculous fear crawled through her head. Suppose he had not been there—suppose she had dreamed him?

Jordan slid the door of the compartment back and poked his head around it, and grinned. He had gone and brought back coffee, and pastries. "I telegrammed your aunt and uncle," he said. "So that they won't be worried. Now, Bertha, where did we leave off? You were talking about yours and Teddy's tenth birthday party. Come cuddle up to me sweetheart, and tell me all about it."

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They crossed the strait just as the first faint flushes of dawn were touching the horizon. They stood together, hand in hand, on the ferry, and watched it together. Their first morning together—their _first_—what a glorious life of promise in that thought! On to another train, speeding toward home. There was so much more to say but they were contented just to sit together, their fingers interlaced.

Jordan wanted to rent a car at the Bright River station, but Bertha would not let him. It was a far way to walk—but not too far. They could walk it together. She wanted Jordan to see all of the places she loved—the places she had loved _him_—to experience them. He held his breath at the White Way of Delight, he kissed her by the Lake of Shining Waters. Lover's Lane finally lived up to its name, for Bertha, at least. At the last moment, before they got to Green Gables, Bertha took him by the hand.

"I don't want to go home yet," she said. "I want to show you something, first."

She led him down a little path, instead. They walked, cross-lots, through fields and houses and past the beautiful sight of sunlit clouds, peach and purple and faintly pink. It was quiet, save for birdsong, and the feeling, Bertha thought, was that of church. Sacred—holy. Past the dark spruce wood they went, together; together over the log bridge, together into the beech grove where the air was so filtered and kissed by green leaves that it was like the heart of an emerald. Finally, when they had almost come to the Carmody road, Bertha stopped, and led Jordan by the hand into an old, mellow garden—a little ramshackle but lovely in its wildness. The stand of wild cherry trees bore hard, sweet fruit at this time of year, but they waved their branches welcomingly. The waves and waves of golden narcissus nodded their heads approvingly. The roses—oh! The roses!—stood upright and proud, in a way that befit the return of their Favored Son and his darling.

Bertha watched as Jordan took it in. "Hester Gray's garden," he breathed. "Bertha—I would have known this place anywhere on earth. My _soul_ would have known it. I—I feel as though I can _breathe_ here."

She went to the low stone dyke—covered entirely by mosses—and knelt down. "Here I was kneeling when I found your grandmother's ring, Jordan Gray. A few inches to the right or left and I might never have found it, and I never would have known you."

"You would have been saved a lot of trouble," he said, jokingly.

"And I would have been relieved of a lot of joy," she told him, serious-browed.

Jordan went and knelt with her in the cool grass. He reached in his pocket and then he took her hand, and fitted a large emerald-and-gold ring on it. "I carry it with me," Jordan told her. "It made me feel close to you. Bertha—I know I needn't ask—but I am going to, because I want to hear you say it. Bertha, will you be my wife? Will we live together—here—in this very place?—together? Forever, darling."

She looked at the ring that had first brought them together, she looked into his handsome, earnest face. She saw in his face her own history, and in it she saw her future. Oh, things would not always be happy—things would sometimes be hard, as they were for everbody, everywhere. Love could not guarantee they wouldn't be. But a love like this would make the storms weatherable. A love like this would make it all worthwhile.

"Yes," she said.

Jordan kissed her—gently. He got to his feet and he went to the rosebushes. One by one he gathered the buds, and when he had an armful, he came back to her, and he laid them at her feet. Went back for more, placed them in her hair. And back for more, until all the roses of Hester Gray's garden had been given over to Bertha like a queen.

Bertha laughed. She saw herself, an old woman, in this very place. She saw dear, funny, chubby, freckled little children, with her hair and Jordan's kind eyes. She saw young lovers, building futures together. She saw old friends talking with stars in her eyes. She thought she saw a slim, lithe girl with an elfin chin and a tall, serious-looking handsome man, plighting their troth that would lead to this moment. She thought she saw Dorothy, peeping at her from behind the cherry trees. And Grand, smiling in approval. And a slight, sweet woman with dark hair—Hester Gray, who had loved the roses too.

She closed her eyes, thinking it was all too sweet to be true. Oh, it couldn't be true, it couldn't!

When she opened them again, Jordan was still there.


End file.
